


Here an Oi, There an Oi (Everywhere an Oi Oi)

by wereallalittlebit



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Harry, Break Up, Eating Disorders, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Lovers to enemies to lovers, M/M, Panic Attacks, Sad Louis, Self-Destruction, Slow Burn, There's a lot of swearing, Top Louis, because I'm british, mention of suicidal thoughts, they're married
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2019-08-03 15:21:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 56,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16328540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wereallalittlebit/pseuds/wereallalittlebit
Summary: Harry and Louis have been off again, on again for years, ever since they first got together on X-Factor. The fact that they're married hadn't stopped this but this time, it looks like it's over for good. In the past, it's always been both of them - overworked, cranky, unable to agree on when to come out. You name it, they've worked through it. But this time, Louis just isn't sure if he can do this anymore.AKA The One Where Harry Fucks Up and Everything Goes to Shit.(Featuring Eleanor as Louis' kinda of sympathetic asexual fake girlfriend, Niall as the voice of reason, Nick as the knight in shining armour and Liam as... well, Liam)





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> So I've never written a fic before but I woke up with this story stuck in my head, and felt like I needed to get it out. I've never written anything before really, unless you count some angsty Livejournal posts and the half-finished Choose Your Own Adventure story I wrote for my (now ex) boyfriend last year. This is also unbetad so any grammar errors are entirely the fault of my autocorrect and a punishment for writing the bulk of this fic on my phone. So be gentle with me please and thank you.
> 
> Huge amounts of love go out to Keris and Martina who are my daily source of love, joy and inspiration. Although the name of our group chat would suggest otherwise, you both bring so much more to my life than just lude pictures of Harry Styles. You help me work through the hard shit, you encourage me with the good shit and I absolutely wouldn't be posting this with you. I love you the most (Keris, it's ok you can finger gun me, I'll know you love me back).
> 
> Honestly, the past 6 months of my life has been a whirlwind but joining this fandom and discovering fic has been one of the most incredible and joyous things to have happened, even amongst everything else. It's taken me to places I never thought I'd go to, introduced me to the best people and made my life infinitely better.
> 
> I have no idea on a posting schedule for this. It will be finished though. Eventually. After a lot of angst. Like, a lot. I'm sorry. Please don't hate me.
> 
> Also obviously (OBVIOUSLY) this is just a work of fiction and is completely for fun. I don't know any of the boys or their lives and this is merely art. Don't ever share it with any of them or their family members because that's just messed up.

Louis hasn’t moved for a good few hours now. He vaguely remembers telling Eleanor to fuck off when she came to ask him if he’d be joining her for dinner. How long ago was that? An hour ago? Two? He sighs, scrubbing his hand across his face, exhaling a soft “fuck” to himself. His mouth is dry and his bones ache, muscles and tendons wrapped tight almost as though they’re preparing to protect him from a blow. He finally lets himself stretch, revelling in the snaps and pops and cracks. Maybe, he thinks to himself, if he stretches hard enough he’ll just snap straight in two and not have to deal with all of this. He stands up, reaching as high as he can, willing his body to break under the pressure of his efforts. It doesn’t. 

 

Of course it doesn’t because he, Louis William Tomlinson, is possibly the unluckiest man alive. This is how he’s come to think of himself over the past few years, because really no-one else he knows has had to endure this much of a fucking shitshow of a life. No one. Especially not Ha- Louis stops himself. Nope, that name is not allowed. It’s cancelled. Done. From now on, he is He Who Shall Not Be Named. Or maybe not, Louis thinks to himself, because all that’s going to do is make him think of the other famous Harry and down that path, trouble surely lies. Fine, fine - “Dickhead”. That’s his new name. Just “Dickhead”, or maybe even “The Dickhead”. He smirks to himself, taking a moment of pleasure as he thinks about how childish it’s going to be to refuse to let anyone actually name him for a while. It’s the little things hey? Oh for fucks sake, no not the little things. Not anything even remotely connected to the Dickhead. Louis kicks the side of the armchair he’d been curled up in, remembering too late that he’s not even wearing socks, yelping out with the pain. 

 

Both Eleanor and Clifford arrive at the same time - Clifford lumbering over at breakneck speed to jump up, paws on Louis’ shoulders, ready to lick his face (Clifford is  _ big  _ ok, Louis isn’t, he is not small), and Eleanor scowling at him, arms crossed in front of her chest as she leans in the doorway.  

 

“So are you trying to break our bloody house or just yourself Louis? Which one is it because I’m actually quite attached to some of this furniture but you can do whatever you want to yourself. Just tell me if I need to have an ambulance on speed dial though so I can call and run. You know I can’t be arsed with the paps these days” Eleanor is glaring at him now, not hint of compassion showing on her face. 

 

“Eleanor,” Louis replies through gritted teeth, “As I believe I have already asked, would you kindly fuck the fuck off and leave me in peace.”

 

“So you can die alone crying your heart out over your pathetic life and the fact that that bastard has broken your heart  _ again?”  _ Eleanor finally moves into the room, settling herself into the armchair that Louis had so valiantly attempted to destroy, ”I think not Louis. As much as you’re a proper cock, I am actually quite fond of you, and quite fond of this house, and as lovely as it would be to live here alone, I don’t for one second believe you haven’t left it all to that dickhead, so no. I will not leave, I will not ‘fuck the fuck off’ and I will not have you breaking our furniture.”

 

“My furniture” Louis mutters under his breath, sneaking a glance in Eleanor’s direction just in time to catch her rolling her eyes as he slumps to the ground, leaning his body against the firm arm of the sofa. 

 

“You’re a proper prick today, do you know that? Fine, your fucking furniture. You pay the bills, I’m your employee, I fucking know. Have you got anything else you want to say mardy arse, or are you finished? I swear to god one of these days I’m going to start sending Ha-“, She catches herself, noticing Louis’ sharp intake of breath as she starts to say the name. She might not like Louis some days, hell she might actively hate him some days, but after over 8 years in each other’s lives, she does love him, on some level at least, and she can’t ever bring herself to kick him when he’s down. “I’m going to start sending  _ him _ my fucking therapy bills for the shit I have to put up with from you. Because you, Louis Tomlinson, do not fucking pay me enough” 

 

Louis glares at her. Well, he attempts to glare at her, but then the pain in his foot finally reaches his brain, and the fact that Eleanor almost said his name, and the overwhelming feeling that maybe he’s just a terrible person and he deserves all of this, every single moment of it because really isn’t it just his fault for being a stupid coward all those years ago and oh shit bollocksing fuck, he’s crying. And not gentle pretty tears, not like the ones that had softly spilled from Ha- from The Dickhead’s eyes last night. No, of course, of fucking course, he’s wracking out full body sobs, snot already streaming into his mouth, mixing with his stupid bitter salty tears, and shit, shit, shit he can’t breathe. 

 

Just as the world starts to go fuzzy, blackness creeping in around the edge of his vision, he feels a soft press against his arm, slow soothing motions running up and down, up and down. Louis focuses in on the movement, tries to time his in and outs to the sensation. 

 

“Come on Lou, just breathe. You’re ok. It’s ok.” Eleanor sighs next to him, tucking her long brown hair behind her ear as she looks out past Louis towards the garden. Which of course, just makes Louis start welling up again because even Eleanor, who has no right at all to treat him this kindly, knows better than to look at him when he’s like this. Louis’ mind flashes up a memory of last night, of being stared at with a set face, eye contact unwavering as he started to fall apart. Almost a decade in each other’s lives and he still hadn’t been able to find a way to tell  _ him _ , to tell the dickhead not to do that. 

 

It’s in moments like this that Louis really misses his mum. She’d know exactly what to do, what to say. She’d probably be calling The Dickhead right now to give him a stern talking to. She’d probably be giving Louis a stern talking to as well, if he’s honest. He can’t pretend he hasn’t played a part in this. Takes two to tango and all that. Still, he’s got Eleanor at least, who has increasingly become more of a big sister/emotional support worker/wetnurse than he’d ever let on, and Clifford, who is currently attempting to crush Louis’ internal organs, frantically scrambling to climb on Louis’ lap, forgetting that he is not, in fact, a chihuahua. 

 

“Cliff, come on, off.. off!” Eleanor really is shit at getting Clifford to do anything and today proves no different. He’s always been Louis’ baby really, and when Louis is upset, Clifford ignores her even more than usual. She’s trying though, one arm still firmly stroking Louis’ bicep, albeit in a slightly less rhythmic manner, the other attempting to wrap around Clifford’s wriggling form 

 

“S’alright El, leave him.” Louis’ voice is weak and reedy, throat scratchy from his panicked breathing. “At least someone still loves me hey?” Louis scratches Clifford behind the ear, smiling softly as he nuzzles his face into his silky black curls. He quickly pulls back, brain catching on the hint of a memory of the last time he nuzzled his face into silky curls and  _ seriously,  _ does that Dickhead have to ruin everything good in his life?

 

Eleanor rolls her eyes again “For fucks sake Louis, a lot of people love you. It’s not just one man and his dog, you’re not that fucking Yorkshire.” She punches him in the arm, right where she’d just been rubbing those soothing strokes that brought him back down. It’s soft enough not to bruise but still, a harsh contrast to the gentleness it replaced. 

 

Now Clifford isn’t really a guard dog - he’s basically an oversized teddy bear. However, Clifford, who believes he is the size of a chihuahua, also happens to believe he has the ferociousness of a Rottweiler and that Louis is some sort of mob boss who should be protected at all costs. Which is why he is currently yelping at Eleanor whilst licking her hand (again, he really doesn’t understand the whole “guard dog” premise) and has now turned to shove his arse in Louis’ face and a massive paw directly on Louis’ bollocks. Louis shouts out in pain, and reflexively kicks out his leg to try and jostle Clifford’s heavy weight off him, but ends up kicking the (very heavy, very expensive, very definitely not bought by Louis) wooden coffee table with his injured foot, upending a cold mug of tea (he’s guessing Eleanor brought it in for him earlier, but he has no recollection) all over himself. 

 

Louis Tomlinson’s life is, quite frankly, a bit of a mess. 

 

~~~~~~

 

Harry rolls over, groaning as the sunlight hits his eyes. He really needs to get better curtains one of these days - soft pink gauze seemed like a lovely idea at the time, when his interior designer had been laying out the options for his Stoke Newington flat. But things had been different then. Things had been lighter, brighter. He’d had Louis, his own personal sun, and there hadn’t been any need to keep that other sun, the one that is apparently hellbent on assaulting his senses this morning, out of his life. Today, however, it can kindly fuck the fuck off. 

 

He grimaces, remembering that those are the exact words Lou had said to him last night through tear stained lips. Normally when Louis tells someone to “kindly fuck the fuck off”, there’s a gentleness to his voice, a hint of playfulness that makes Harry’s blood fizz like champagne. Not last night though. No, last night Louis said those words with the voice of a broken man. There had been no gentleness, no playfulness - Harry’s blood hadn’t fizzed through his body like champagne. It had settled heavy in his body, full of lead, and the feeling didn’t seem to have shifted since. 

 

Harry claws blindly for his phone, an arm thrown across his eyes to protect him from the unrelenting cheerfulness of the sun. Surely, he thinks to himself, he’s slept in till at least 8am. The sun can’t be this bright any earlier than that. He hesitantly moves his arm, freeing up one eye to squint blearily at his phone. 

 

5am. Wonderful. 

 

He briefly considers throwing his phone across the room, before remembering that external manifestations of anger are merely the act of not having control of his inner world and instead drags himself into something vaguely resembling an upright position. His spine crunches, the noise harsh against his otherwise peaceful surroundings (the soundproofed windows really had been a good investment). He hums softly to himself, giving his vocal chords a gentle warm up. They ache a little, but that’s not surprising. Last night had reached full screaming match levels of argument  _ and  _ he’d spent the best part of the last two weeks in the studio. Thank goodness today was a rest day. He needed it. 

 

Slipping his feet into a ratty pair of slippers, he slowly ambles his way towards the bathroom. He does not think about all the times Louis has tried to convince him to get rid of said slippers because they were “honestly minging Haz, you’re a millionaire, buy a fucking fresh pair”. He also does not think about the fact that every time Louis said that, Harry would shove the slippers in his face and then end up over Louis’ knee, breathless and panting at playful thawks being delivered to his backside. No, Harry does not think about any of those things. Instead, he thinks about how desperately he needs to piss and whether he remembered to buy celery at Whole Foods yesterday for his daily juice. Alas, he remembers, he did not. 

 

Harry’s morning routine has been set for years. It’s the only way he’d managed to stay sane during the last few years of the band and across the transition into his solo career. It was the only way he’d managed to stay sane with the constant on again off again of his and Lou’s relationship too. Harry had learnt early on that when he tried to mould his routine around Louis, it only made it harder to keep moving on days like today, when the air feels like treacle around his heavy limbs and the oxygen in his bloodstream never quite seems to reach his brain. It had been a point of contention in their relationship at various moments, and Harry doesn’t think about all the times Louis had poutily tried to lure him back into bed and away from his “hippy bullshit”. He also doesn’t think about all the times he’s heard the faintest sound of a gentle Donny accent chanting “Om Jai Ganesha” from the other room during his meditation time, or the times he’s seen the faintest hint of a green moustache on Louis’ upper lip when he’s left his juice on the side to go answer the door to the postie. No, Harry doesn’t think about that or anything else related to Louis. Not today. 

 

Of course, the fact that he is very definitely Not Thinking about those things is completely unrelated to the sinking feeling in his stomach and the burning sensation in his right thumb. Wait what? Harry drops the lighter he’d been holding, swiftly blowing on the incense stick that is now already halfway finished and pushing his burnt thumb into his mouth. Which of course, definitely doesn’t make him think about all of the times that Louis has done exactly this - taken Harry’s scorched thumb into his mouth, run his fingers tenderly across his cheek and softly comforted him, brought him back to the world when he’s been too caught up in his thoughts to pay attention to the candle he’s lighting or the incense he’s burning. Harry never had quite worked out how Louis always just seemed to  _ know  _ the days to quietly follow him into his meditation room were - it was like he had a sixth sense for Harry being in danger. Without fail, he was there to catch him, to soothe him, to protect him from himself. 

 

At this thought, Harry crumbles. It’s not graceful or delicate or pretty, no it’s harsh and ugly and he’s a naked heap on the floor, just his stupid ratty slippers for cover. His sobs come easily, and he almost catches himself thinking about how strange it had been that last night he wasn’t the first one to cry for once. 

 

“Really fucked it up this time Styles” he mumbles to himself through tear choked breaths. And he had, there was no denying that. For all the back and forth and to and fro and are we aren’t we that haunted their past, this time it was completely, undeniably his fault, and no amount of time spent in meditation, no litres of green juice was going to erase that fact. 

 

He’s on the verge of letting himself sink under, be pulled into the darkness that lurks around the corners of his mind when he’s interrupted by what sounds like someone trying to break down his front door. 

 

The heavy, pounding thuds and thumps echo through the flat as Harry tries to upright himself again. They are unrelenting and fuck, Harry wishes his limbs would move just a bit quicker so he could make. it. stop. But no, his stupid giraffe legs won’t carry him any faster and  _ seriously _ , who the fuck is trying to destroy his oak panelled door and what did it do to offend them?

 

“Hazza if you don’t open this door immediately I’m gonna fucking break it down you bellend” Niall’s Irish tones boom into the hallway and  _ genuinely _ is he using a megaphone or has he always been this loud? “I swear to god Haz, you’ve got thirty seconds and then I’m-”

 

Harry opens the door before he can finish (both his sentence and his assault on the antique wood). “Niall,” Harry’s voice is not much more than a hoarse whisper, “I do have neighbours you know, and I generally prefer it when they don’t phone the council with a noise complaint. The Sun would have a field day. Now will you fuck off?”

 

Niall snorts and shoots a quick glance across Harry’s naked body “Haz mate, you’ve got your bollocks out and you look like shit. Think the neighbours have got more than me banging on your door to sell to The Sun today. Stop being a twat and let me in.”

 

Reluctantly, Harry steps to one side, letting Niall across the threshold. He hastily closes the door, wincing as he uses just a little too much force, a booming slam echoing out into the stairwell. Safe to say there’s not a person in the block who doesn’t know he’s home. Life just keeps getting better and better. 

 

By the time he turns around, Niall has already shucked off his shoes, thrown his jacket on the sofa and is making his way towards the kitchen. The kettle is on before Harry can say a word and Niall starts rifling through the cupboards in search of tea bags. 

 

“You won’t find any,” Harry’s voice sounds faint in his own ears, almost as though someone else is speaking for him, “I threw them all away when I got in last night. I couldn’t..y’know. Tea. It’s his thing. Couldn’t…” Harry’s lips start to tremble and he tries to draw in a big steady breath, but it catches in his throat and makes him cough. Christ, he really is pathetic. 

 

“No worries, coffee it is-“ Niall catches the look on Harry’s face “Ok fine, no hot drinks. All hot drinks are off limits. No tea, no coffee, no mocha, no cappuccino, no London fog latte or tumeric chai or whatever other bollocks you’ve been drinking lately. Only for today though. You can’t fucking tell me that he gets all hot drinks in the divorc-“ Niall tries to catch himself, he really does, but it’s half five in the bastard morning and he’s spent the whole night worried his best friend had topped himself and really,  _ really _ he is trying his fucking best. 

 

For the second time that morning, Harry crumbles straight down to the ground with a thump and his valiant attempts at holding back the tears cease. The dam is broken, the floodgates open and tears are spilling heavily down his cheeks. He half remembers that he’s stark bollock naked (expect for the slippers, because of course) when he feels the wetness splash against his thighs. He is a mess, and he does not deserve Niall’s pity or sympathy or friendship. And Niall definitely doesn’t deserve to have a look across his face that is full of the guilt and remorse of a man who just dropped kicked a puppy thinking it was a football. Harry is a mess, a big old fucked up mess, and no amount of tea (water...juice...whatever) was going to fix that. 

 

Barely conscious of his actions, Harry decides to hold his breath. It’s what he’s always done, ever since he was little, when he gets this upset. He holds his breath for as long as he can and sometimes, like now, he tries to will himself to hold it long enough that another breath doesn’t get a chance to come. If he can just hold it long enough, it’ll all be over and everyone can get on without him. Louis will find someone else, someone better for him. Niall won’t have to spend so many mornings like this with a naked sobbing Harry and not even a cup of tea to make it better. Liam...well, Liam would finally have a day of peace and his mum and Gem would get over it eventually. He’s just starting to see the white spots dancing behind his eyes and feel the blackness behind them fizz when he’s met with a harsh slap across the cheek. 

 

“Absolutely not Harry, you absolute fucking prick. No, no you don’t get to be this much of a selfish fucking arse. I am not going to sit here at the crack of fucking dawn to watch you try and bloody off yourself with your balls hanging out. I will fucking hold your mouth open if I need to. You don’t get to do that to me when I’ve been this fucking worried about you. I haven’t slept, haven’t even had fucking brew since last night, and we are not playing this game”

 

“It’s not a ga-“ Harry weakly tries to interject but Niall shushes him with a stern finger. Harry briefly considers how much Niall looks like his mum, but the thought disappears as Niall’s tirade against him continues. 

 

“You, you fucking prick, do not get to speak right now. You do not get to send me a text that reads like a fucking  _ suicide note _ and then not reply to any of my texts or calls all fucking night and then deny me tea and try to fucking suffocate yourself the minute I arrive”

 

“Wait, what?!” Harry’s head snaps up to meet Niall’s furious gaze. Suicide note? Harry tries to scramble through his memories of last night but finds that everything between leaving Louis’ house and waking up in the morning is a thick haze. He remembers sobbing, and feelings of desperation as he threw all the tea bags in the bin (not even in the composter which, eesh, he now regrets). He remembers drinking a full bottle of his most expensive red wine, the one he was saving for a special occasion. And now, hazily, fuzzily, remembers clawing his way through the medicine cabinet, lining up all of the bottles across the countertop in the bathroom. Which matches the photo on Niall’s phone, currently inches from his face. 

 

“‘Think I better love you goodbye’. Seriously, you’re a proper cunt do you know that? Using our own fucking lyrics as a fucking suicide-“ Niall doesn’t finish his sentence, his own sobs starting to come thick and fast. Niall has never been much of a crier, not like the rest of them. Teflon Niall they always called him. And yet now here he is, head heavy on Harry’s bare shoulder as sobs wrack through his solid chest. 

 

“Harry, Hazza, talk to me mate.” Niall chokes out between sobs, “What the fuck is going on?”

 

And with that, Harry knows it’s time to come clean. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone get Niall a cup of tea, stat!


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, I wrote the first 9,500 words of this fic on my phone. Don't do that kids, it'll mess up your wrists. Also apple, spinach and ginger juice is hands down the best juice and I'm really, really sorry if you get "Here an oi, there an oi, everywhere an oi oi" stuck in your head. I've been singing it to myself all day.

Louis knows that if he can get this verse recorded, just one clean shot, he can have a break. He honestly, absolutely knows that which is why it fucks him off quite so much to hear this hipster producer saying these exact words through his inears. He considers giving him the finger, but no, he’s not 18 anymore. He’s a mature and responsible adult, and if he sticks his middle finger up beneath the sweater paw covering his left hand, no one needs to know. 

 

“Yeah mate,” Louis tries his best to smile as he replies, he really does “Let’s just give it another go, sure I’ll get it this time. Dunno what’s wrong with me today, must have been a dodgy McMuffin or summut” 

 

Louis know exactly what’s wrong. What’s wrong is that he hasn’t really eaten for the past 48 hours because every time he drives past a McDonalds all he can hear is Harry’s voice singing the ridiculous song he’d once made up about broccoli that had somehow become their “McDonalds song”. For some reason, Harry thought that if he sang it sweetly enough as the car pulled up to the drive through entrance, Louis would ask him to reverse straight back out and proclaim his love for the little green trees. He never did. Not even once. It’s stupid how much Louis regrets that now. 

 

Eleanor had tried her best to get him to eat something. She’d known him long enough to have given up on actual nourishment and instead just shoved half eaten bags of crisps and already nibbled at chocolate bars under his nose whenever he walked past her. He’d tried, he really had. But the grease and the salt and the sickly sweet creaminess all just stuck in his throat and made the pit in his stomach seem to run even deeper. So he’d given up, instead adding extra sugar to his tea (it made it taste like arse, but at least it was enough to get him through the day) and that was why he couldn’t focus long enough to sing this bloody line right. Well, that and his husband deciding to claw his heart out of his chest and rip it into teeny tiny pieces in front of his face. But who’s counting hey? Definitely not Louis. 

 

Just as the backing track starts up and Louis takes a steadying breath to try and convince his brain to not fuck it up, a fist taps sharply at the window of the booth. Louis almost finds himself longing for the days of recording in shoddy hotel rooms with mattresses and no sleep and auto tune ready to correct the shit out of his sleep strained voice. No such luck these days. Abbey fucking Road was meant to be the dream for everyone recording artist but for Louis, it was fast becoming a nightmare. 

 

He looks up and is met with the eyes of an eager intern, smiling nervously, raising his fist to knock again. 

 

“Alright, alright no need to break the bloody glass hey?” Louis feels the Donny lad persona coming over him, settling like a blanket across his aching bones. An “oi oi” here, two fingers up there, here an oi, there an oi, everywhere an oi oi. Fuck. Louis really needs to eat. And sleep. And possibly to get himself booked in with his psychiatrist. 

 

The intern (John? Jim? Jamie? Louis is shit with names, it’s why he calls everyone “love”) briskly apologises, a clumsily mumbled heap of sorrys and Mr Tomlinsons falling from his lips as he shoves the bag he’d been clutching in his non glass banging fist into Louis’ hand. Louis makes a mental note to remind Eleanor to remind Oli to remind the interns to just call him fucking Louis. 

 

Louis doesn’t remember ordering lunch. In fact, he expressly remembers telling Eleanor and Oli (because it is never enough just to tell one of them given that they barely fucking speak to each other,  _ honestly  _ he needs to sort his life out) not to order him lunch. And Niall and Liam were both off of recording duties today which meant that...fuck. No. Nope, no fucking way. Calling him The Dickhead doesn’t feel strong enough to be quite honest. Louis lets his mind roam free over a choice selection of alternatives as he tries to school his face into something a little less...menacing. The intern (Jack?) seems to be trembling in front of him. 

 

“J love (if in doubt, abbreviate was Louis’ motto to live by), I wasn’t expecting lunch today. Thank you for getting this for me but I’ve already eaten. I’d hate for it to go to waste. Do you want it?” 

 

He hasn’t even opened the bag, but the smell is making his mouth water. He knows exactly what it is and Harry St-The Dickhead is a little shit. Always has been, always will be. It’s a Thai red curry from their favourite market stall just a couple of streets down, with a side of spinach, apple and ginger juice because of course he knows exactly what Louis needs when he’s feeling sad and struggling to eat. Of course he does. And only Ha-the little shit who doesn’t even deserve a nickname- would try to use food as a peace offering when he’d fucked up so monumentally. 

 

The intern (Louis was now pretty certain his name was Jack, but wasn’t going to risk it until he check with El) is looking sheepishly down at the ground, a blush starting to rise across his cheeks. 

 

“Ummm. Mr Styles said you might say that and told me to give you this if you did” Jack ( _ definitely  _ Jack, or shit is it Jake? No, Jack) takes a neatly folded piece of paper, rough around the edges where it’s been torn from the journal that Louis had bought as a Christmas gift last year. “And he told me to tell you that ‘It isn’t polite to refuse to take things that interns who are paid a whole lot less than you have been asked to deliver’” Jack’s blush has now firmly taken hold across his face and neck. His fingers tremble as they lightly hold the note out in front of Louis and honestly, why is his husband (soon to be ex because this was absolutely the last straw) like this? Why did he think that being this stubborn and direct and  _ weird  _ was anything other than mortifying for everyone else involved. This poor fucking intern. 

 

Louis sighs and reluctantly takes the note. 

 

_ “Lou, I know I fucked up and I’m not asking you to forgive me but please don’t take it out on yourself. You don’t deserve to be punished for my wrongdoing. Eat the curry, please darling. You know it will help. All my love, H” _

 

Louis inhales, and he exhales. He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose and tries his hardest to ignore the growls his stomach is making. Even his own body seems intent on betraying him today. He stays like this for a few moments, breathing in the scent of sweet herbs and spices and coconut milk until Jack coughs softly. 

 

“If ermmm...if that’s everything Mr Tomlinson?” His voice is trembling just slightly and Louis wonders if he’s got enough sway with management to give the poor guy a raise. Probably not, but he’ll bloody well try regardless. Louis opens his eyes, smiles and nods his head towards the door. Jack thankfully takes the hint and scarpers, saving Louis the embarrassment of attempting to formulate words. 

 

He passes a quick glance to the other side of the recording booth where hipster producer seems to have taken the hint (probably gone for a quinoa salad and a charcoal latte) and Louis revels in finally having a moment of solitude. He slowly backs himself up to the wall, legs weak beneath him, finally giving out after his two days on hunger strike, and slides his way down to the floor. With eyes closed, he lifts a spoonful of rich spiced liquid to his lips. For the first time since his life fell to pieces, Louis smiles. 

 

~~~~

 

Harry’s heart is pounding in his ears, his breath coming in ragged little pants. He braces himself, waiting for the next strike to come crashing against him, but it doesn’t come. A desperate moan escapes his lips as he reluctantly opens his eyes. 

 

“That’s enough for today I think Haz. You’re not with it. You haven’t blocked my last 5 shots and I’m not gonna take down a man who won’t defend himself.” Harry’s trainer has already thrown his own gloves to the ground, and is making quick work of pulling at the Velcro fastening of Harry’s. Once Harry’s hands are free, Ben makes a start on unwinding his wraps, and Harry closes his eyes, letting the pain throb through his body as he focuses on the gentle ritual taking place around his hands. 

 

Harry seriously contemplates just exactly how much it would take to convince Ben to go another few rounds, to knock him out cold, just this once. £500? £1000? Harry couldn’t give a shit how much it cost to be honest. It’s not like he doesn’t have the money. But no, Ben wouldn’t do that. Because Ben is a professional and as much as Harry may be a total fuck up, he knows that there’s limits with these things. Boundaries. He’s already dragged enough people into his mess, he doesn’t need to add another. 

 

“Thanks mate” Harry clasps Ben’s sweaty hand in his own, pulling him in for a bro hug. Harry is more of a cuddler, but whatever, some people like a bro hug and Harry’s nothing if not a people pleaser. Well. He used to be. Now…

 

“You’re welcome man,” Ben’s broad London accent pulling him out of his self pitying thoughts, “Just take care of yourself ‘k? Weird to see you like this, s’not right. Reckon we’ll just stick to weights next time yeah? Don’t wanna bruise everyone’s favourite little peach”. Ben snorts a laugh and playfully bops Harry’s chin. A couple of seconds too late, Harry remembers to let out a half laugh in response. 

 

His mind had got caught on how desperately he wanted Ben to bruise him. Not like a peach though, no, not soft and tender. He wanted Ben to knock fifty living shades of shit out of him, make him forget his own name and  _ jesus, _ ok Harry was definitely on a self destructive streak. He makes a mental note to text Niall about it, who had appointed himself as Harry’s “unofficial Self Destruction Buddy”. Every time Harry’s mind went to this dark place, they’d agreed, he was to text Niall. Just in case. Just to..just to keep him in check. Harry honestly doesn’t know what he did to deserve Niall and had no idea how Niall seemed to bounce back so quickly every time Harry falls apart and needs him to put him back together. But he always does, and Harry knows how lucky he is to have him. 

 

Ben says some other things, but Harry doesn’t quite hear them. He thinks he manages to mutter the right responses in return at least. He’s had enough years on autopilot for small talk to manage to make it through basic polite conversation even when he’s barely functioning. The wonders of show business. 

 

Finally, Harry is left alone in the training space. He’s had keys to the building for years, Ben long having got bored of 11pm phone calls when Harry had jogged his way down to the little warehouse space in Hackney Wick to take his frustrations out on the punch bags. The only rules were “Clean up after yourself”, “Lock the door dickhead” and “For fucks sake, don’t bleed on my fucking bags”. The last one had been put in place after a particularly self destructive moment a few years ago, when Zayn was talking about leaving the band. Harry had decided that going bare knuckled against one of the heavy bags at midnight would make it all feel better. It did not. 

 

Tapping the button on the side of his phone, Harry quickly checks the time. Less than an hour until he’s due at the recording studio, less than half an hour before Louis leaves the recording studio, less than 15 minutes before his car is due to pick him up. He contemplates showering, but honestly? Showering feels like too much effort right now. And who does he even have to shower for? He doesn’t mind the smell of his own sweat and musk, it’s just natural y’know? And none of the other boys will be at the studio and Louis, well. It doesn’t matter. Louis won’t be seeing him today, or any day soon. And Harry has no one to blame about that but himself. 

 

His phone buzzes in his hand, 3 sharp  _ brrzts.  _ Louis’ alert pattern which huh? Unexpected. Harry tentatively unlocks his phone and taps the notification. His heart beats just a little faster than normal, but that could just be the workout making itself known. 

 

“ _ Do not, and I repeat, do fucking not, pull that shit again Harold. You’re a prick, and you don’t need to drag fucking interns into this pile of wank you’ve so graciously given the rest of us to deal with. El will be in touch soon about moving your stuff out. I’m done.”   _

 

Attached was a photo of the empty curry pot and the empty juice cup sitting in the bin, his crumpled note beneath them, stained with the red dribbles of leftover sauce. The grease had made the words slur into each other, ink bleeding across the page. It is as unartistic a photo as Harry has ever seen, not intended to be an act of thanks or praise or anything even remotely positive. No, this is Louis’ way of showing Harry just exactly how unforgiving he’s feeling. Louis has never thrown away one of Harry’s notes, even in the worst of times. Sure there had been times when they’d made their way into the recycling, but never in the bin. Never with actual rubbish. Never stained and crushed and unsalvageable. 

 

It’s a sharp, cold reminder that this time, Harry has fucked them up for good. And as much as Harry would love to sit and wallow in that feeling, let it consume him and rip him apart, his phone is buzzing in his hand again, letting him know that his driver has just arrived outside. The studio is waiting for him. Even with all the bullshit and the drama he’d brought upon himself, One Direction have a comeback album to record. And Harry refuses to let anyone else down. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooooo One Direction making a come back album! Lol, imagine if this were real life, how nice would that be? Not the angst, obviously, just the album. The boys can be happy. Please. And thank you.
> 
> Also shout out to broccoli aka the king of the vegetables. Don't @ me.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I didn't intend to have so much Eleanor to start with - in fact, this fic actually came about from imagining a scene with her and Louis that will never make it into the fic because she's a bit of a dick. But she's also basically a totally blank canvas, so I'm almost treating her as an OMC but like with less effort for me. Anyway, we get a bit of her backstory at the end of this chapter and look I'm sorry but I've really warmed to fic!Eleanor in this story so we might get more. Actual Eleanor though? End it.

The air in the room is stiflingly hot and Harry is honestly struggling to breathe. He’d open the window, but doing that would mean asking Louis to let him past and yeah, not gonna happen. Harry quite likes his testicles being attached to his body, even if they were never going to be used again for anything other than sad wanks in the shower. And to be honest, even they weren’t happening right now. Harry had been trying to convince himself it was some sort of tantric training exercise but no, he just couldn’t bring himself to touch his own dick without his skin crawling and tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. He’s even taken to sitting down to pee. Anything to lessen the contact between his hand and his cock, but still, he likes it, objectively speaking, and has no desire for it to be anywhere other than attached to his body. From the look Louis had given him when he walked through the door of the conference room, he definitely wasn’t willing to risk the possibility of losing it. 

 

Fans had often gently mocked Harry for what they called his “creepy murder face” - the face he’d make at Louis in those times when his lust and love and desire and need all got too much and the rest of the world faded away. But Louis had looked at him like he was actually planning his untimely demise and to be honest, Harry wouldn’t really blame him. And also wouldn’t be surprised if he pulled it off - Donny connections and all that. 

 

So no, Harry is going to sit here and just deal with the heat and look, who even needs to breathe that deeply anyway? Definitely not Harry. Nope, definitely not. He silently hopes that one of the other boys will arrive soon and open a window and oh y’know, break the crushingly silent atmosphere that’s settled in the room. All he can hear is his own soft wheezes as he tries to regulate his breathing in the stifling air and it’s starting to drive him a little bit mad. 

 

“For fucks sake Haz,” Louis’ voice makes Harry jump in his seat. He risks a glance in Lou’s direction, only to see that his gaze is fixed firmly on the patch of carpet in front of him “Use your fucking inhaler and open the bastard window. I might hate you but I don’t want you to fucking die on me.”

 

Harry thinks he hears Louis mumble something about not having a good fucking alibi and it being just his luck to be put away for murdering his idiot of a husband, but he can’t be sure. He scrambles in his bag whilst simultaneously trying to stand up to open the window and of course, of fucking course, he gets his legs tangled up in the straps and goes arse over tit in front of Louis. Louis lets out a long, exasperated sigh. 

 

Louis doesn’t say anything, instead he delicately places his feet on the floor near Harry’s splayed out curls and deftly moves himself over the window, avoiding stepping on Harry’s sprawled out form in the process. He opens it, and zips his hoodie all the way up to the top with a slight shiver. They never could manage to get rooms the right temperature for both of them, and more often than not it was Louis who made the sacrifice. Harry gulps in a deep breath, letting the cool air fill his lungs and starts to splutter out a thank you. 

 

“Don’t.” Louis is gently rubbing fingers over his temples, “Do not fucking thank me Harry. Just take your fucking inhaler and get the fuck up off the floor.” Louis still hasn’t looked at him, not even once, since the murderous glare when Harry first entered the room. Harry has never felt more distant from someone who he could quite literally reach out and touch in his life. It is miserable. 

 

He silently uprights himself and roots around in his bag for his inhaler. He hates that Louis called it his inhaler just now- they’d jokingly started calling it his “puff puff” like the fans did because Harry thought it was cute and it made him less grumpy about relying on it and it was impossible not to smile when Louis’ eyes were sparkling and his voice was full of light and laughter as he reminded Harry to “take your puff puff sweetcheeks” at night before bed. But no, now it was back to being his stupid inhaler for his stupid weak chest which means that once again, Louis has had to put himself out and look after him. Harry scowls at the little blue plastic contraption and grumpily shoves it in his mouth. He mistimes his inhale and ends up coughing as the cold mist hits the back of his throat. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees Louis’s body shake with a single beat of laughter. But maybe it was just a trick of the light? 

 

“I’m not fucking doing that for you as well dickhead. You are going to need to learn some basic life skills if you’re going to survive without me Harold. This was your fucking choice y’know? I’m not the one who-“

 

Louis pulls himself up mid sentence, turning his head towards the opening door to find Liam and Niall entering the room. It’s quite a sight - Harry is still half sat, half sprawled on the floor, his inhaler lazily hanging out of his mouth and eyes glassy with unshed tears. There’s a small dribble of snot running from his left nostril and his breath is still a little wheezy in his chest. Louis is curled up on the chair closest to the window, legs tucked underneath himself, hoodie still zipped right the way up and baseball cap tugged down low, scowl set firmly in place. Despite the gentle breeze now blowing in from outside, the air feels thick and heavy and somehow, even the traffic seems quieter than usual - just Harry’s rattling breaths and the ghost of an unfinished sentence fill the room. 

 

Liam looks panicked. Admittedly, Liam normally looks panicked at meetings with management but today he’s at peak “Oh my god they’re going to cut us loose” panic by the looks of things. Niall, on the other hand, looks completely unphased and decides to plonk himself firmly down in the chair between the two pathetic forms Harry and Louis currently cut. 

 

“Eh lads, have you tried this popcorn like? It’s fucking peanut butter and salted caramel and it’s bloody great”. He pushes the bag to his left and then to his right, being met with sober shakes of the head from either side. “Suit yourselves then tossers, more for me.” He promptly throws a few pieces up in the air, attempting to catch them in his mouth. He’s successful with one, whilst the other three fall to Harry’s hair, the floor and the edge of Louis’ Balenciagas respectively. Harry giggles. Louis scowls. Liam is staring at the piece on the floor as though he’s expecting that to have a reaction too. Unsurprisingly, it does not. 

 

Liam clears his throat. They’ve been together long enough that all of them know this is Liam’s “Daddy Direction” indicator, the sign that he’s going to try and take the reigns and bring them all in. 

 

“Liam,” Harry is almost relieved to hear that Louis’ murderous tone isn’t reserved just for him today, “Don’t even think about it. We are absolutely not talking about what’s happening with me and that dic- with me and my husband. We are talking about official band issues and that is all.” Louis jaw is firm, his mouth a set line, his gaze still fixed firmly on the bit of carpet in front of him. Harry’s half surprised it’s not burst into flames from the intensity of his glare. 

 

“But the thing is Lou, Haz” Liam coughs nervously, “It is an official band issue isn’t it? Because like, you’re both in the band, and so it affects us and y’know with the comeback tour and all of that”

 

Louis’ head whips up so fast Harry is amazed he doesn’t hear it snap. His eyes are fierce, blazing with anger and the tone of his reply pure acid.

 

“Remember the last time you made mine and Harry’s relationship official band business Liam? Remember when you sided with management and forced us apart? Remember being the fucking shill who kept Harry and me in the closet because you were too afraid to think about your own bi curious fucking tendencies? Remember that Liam, do you fucking remember that? Because I fucking do. So fuck off with your official fucking band issue bullshit. You are not involved in any of this.” Louis hugs himself tightly, his gaze returning to that poor abused spot on the floor. 

 

“Lou,” Harry gently tries to lean over Niall, hoping that his touch will still have the soothing effect it always has when Louis sees red. He is very much mistaken. 

 

“Harry,” Louis spits his name venomously, “I have already told you and I will keep fucking telling you until it goes into that thick fucking skull of yours to piss off and leave me alone. Don’t you  _ dare _ try to comfort me and don’t you  _ dare _ try to tell me he’s got a point. In fact, none of you fuckers speak to me. I’m here. I’ll sign what I need to sign and then I’m off.” Louis senses Liam about to interject and raises a finger to silence him “And don’t worry, everything on stage will be professional. The album will be recorded. The money will come in. Me and Harry have pretended to hate each other before haven’t we? Won’t be that different now that it’s real.”

 

Harry wants to reply and tell Louis that he doesn’t hate him, not even a little bit, not even at all, but he knows better than to even try. Now is not the time, not when Louis is breathing like he’s just gone six rounds in the ring and when Liam looks like he’s quite literally about to shit his pants and when Niall is giving him a soft and pitying look through a mouth full of popcorn. No, now is not the time to try and win back his husband’s heart. Harry swallows hard as he realises that there might never be a time for that. Maybe this is it this time? Maybe they’re finally done. 

 

He’s pulled from his thoughts by Niall, who appears completely unphased by everything that’s just played out and has finally finished chewing his lash big mouthful. 

 

“Lads, look, this is proper shit but your business is your business.” Harry notices Niall give a stern look in Liam’s direction and feels soothed somehow. Niall always knows how to make all of them behave and play nice. He’s been the mum of the group ever since Zayn left (and Harry secretly thinks he does a better job of it too). 

 

“We have no right to tell you what to do or how to do it but,” Harry notices he’s now looking very firmly in Louis’ direction, somehow managing to catch his eye despite Lou’s best efforts. “But, we need to work together as a team otherwise management will come in an screw us all over. We’re not going to be played off against each other again ok? We’re not repeating those last few years. We’re not going to keep making mistakes that hurt each other just because management fuck with our heads.”

 

It’s with his last sentence that Niall finally shifts to look in Harry’s direction, and Harry squirms under the scrutiny of it. Niall knows exactly what happened between him and Louis, every single pathetic little detail. He might even know more than Louis, Harry muses, given that Louis kept shouting at Harry to shut up every time he tried to explain, needing to run to the toilet a handful of times to vomit. Yes, Niall knows exactly what management are capable of, and Harry does too. They need to stay united together if they have any chance of this comeback being a success. It’s at that moment, caught up in thoughts of management and the sticky imprint of their fingers on this whole messy situation, that Harry’s attention is caught once again by the creak of an opening door. 

 

“Gentlemen,” Says the man at the door, all teeth and sharp suit and gliding vowels, “How wonderful to see you together again. Shall we begin?” And with that he ushers in a small team - lawyers, PR, and whoever else. 

 

The boys get their game faces on. A united front - nothing else matters. Only the music and the fans and success. 

 

~~~~

Louis leans his head against the cool leather of the Range Rover’s back seat and lets out a deep exhale. That had gone far, far worse than he’d expected and he just needs a moment to try and gather together all of his broken parts. The actual management side of things had gone alright, all things considered. The four of them were much savvier now that they were pushing thirty and had ten or so years of industry experience under their belts. Louis had even been in the management seat himself a couple of times now, so he had a firm confidence in dealing with the sharks. He’d always been the one in charge anyway, so no difference really. 

 

No, the thing that was currently making him feel like his organs were dissolving and his lungs were ready to collapse beneath his ribs, was how fucking  _ broken  _ Harry had looked and how Louis had had to pretend that it didn’t even register.

 

After nearly ten years with the same person, you come to know all the subtleties of them. You know the difference between the causes of grey circles under the eyes and blue ones. You know the slight deviation between hair greasy with sweat and sex and nights out dancing and hair lank with desperation and tears. You know that when their inhales are shorter than their exhales it means they’re trying their hardest not to cry and you know that the way they jerkily stand up is because they didn’t sleep properly last night and that the sore spot on their hip is giving them trouble. You know that your thumbs know exactly how to soothe that ache with gently prodding circles, and that your fingertips know how to untangle those curls under  _ just right _ water, and that your kisses make those sweeps of grey exhaustion slip away from beneath heavy lids. 

 

Louis knows all of this and more, and yet ultimately it is meaningless because his husband isn’t here and so he can’t use any of this knowledge, of these hidden depths, to soothe Harry’s pain. To soothe his own pain. 

 

He’s jostled from his thoughts by sudden movement to his left and the sound of the car door slamming shut. He opens his eyes, swiftly wiping away the tears that were just threatening to spill, and glances over in Eleanor’s direction. 

 

“You look like shit Lou.” 

 

Always had a way with words did Eleanor. Not necessarily a good way, or a way that Louis would openly welcome, but a way all the same. 

 

“Nice to see you too Eleanor, love of my life, stirrer of my loins.” Louis notices the driver up front give a little snort and thanks all the gay gods up in heaven that his closest team know he’s a sarky gay queen. God forbid anyone who works for him thinking he and Eleanor were actually an item. It had done his head in first time round and was one of his key demands when he’d brought her back into his life - anyone who was going to be there for more than a glancing moment had to know that Harry was his love and Eleanor was his employee. It was mutually beneficial for all involved and it worked. It really worked. Well, it had worked, but now it’s all a bit by the by he supposes. 

 

“You’re an idiot.” Eleanor responds and firmly presses her hand across Louis’ mouth to stop him interrupting with some sharp tongued come back. “For once in your life shut up and let me speak.” Tentatively, she removes her hand, waiting to make sure that Louis isn’t going to cut her off. 

 

“So I’ve been thinking,” Louis resists the urge to throw out a ‘Don’t strain yourself love’ because really Eleanor has been a bloody godsend over the past few days and she doesn’t deserve his bullshit right now. “And I reckon we should go away for the weekend. Normal rules apply separate rooms, discreet location, no paps except for on the return flight. But I think it’d do you good Lou. You’re knackered and you’re miserable and we both deserve a bit of sun, sea and ummm….”

 

“Sangria?” Louis adds in, a soft tone to his voice. He’s always been as sensitive as he could be to Eleanor’s asexuality, knowing she was still a bit embarrassed to talk about it with most people who weren’t him. It was one of the reasons they worked so well though - Eleanor had next to no desire for anything even remotely sexual in her life. Never had, probably never would. She’d once drunkenly confessed to him that she actually quite liked kissing so long as the people were pretty (Louis, apparently, was not pretty, which had made him snort tequila right out of his nose) and he knew that she was capable of romantic attraction after they’d swapped stories of their first crushes in those early years of the partnership. But day to day, she was happy with an arrangement that kept her parents off her back and kept her finances up to scratch. Louis actually kept trying to give her a raise, but she’d perfected the art of changing the subject every time he broached the issue, so he just gave up. If he occasionally slipped extra notes in her purse when she left it out on the side, that was no one’s business but his own. 

 

Eleanor exhales a breathy chuckle “Yeah babe, sun sea and sangria. What d’ya think? Got a couple of days off coming up over the weekend right? I’ll definitely be able to get us in to the usual place in ‘beefa if you want it?” Her phone is already out, nimble fingers tapping swiftly at the touch screen. 

 

Louis looks out of the car, grimacing at the grey sky and the rain starting to softly patter down on the windscreen. “Sure El,” he replies, “Anything has got to be better than this.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beefa! Puff Puff! Liam trying to look for a reaction from a piece of popcorn. Snack!Niall (as oppossed to snacc!Niall, who IDK, maybe he'll turn up later I'm undecided). Poor Harry. Poor Louis. Poor everyone who had to deal with that tense as hell meeting.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how it goes - all made up, just pretend, none of this happened etc etc. If you're wondering who I have the strongest relate to in this chapter, it's Harry. I read one bit of dialogue to my housemate and they snorted and told me that I'd basically written Harry as me. So fine, that's fine. We're all fine.

It turns out, not everything was better than sitting in traffic on a gloomy, wet Wednesday afternoon in Hampstead. In fact, right now Louis would happily give his left arm to be back there. But no, he’d agreed to come out to the club with Eleanor (and Cal and Oli who had somehow ended up tagging along to Ibiza, which Louis is  _ sure _ he didn’t agree to, but when did what Louis said actually make the blindest bit of difference?) and that’s why he’s currently staring forlornly at the cocktail that had been unexpectedly placed in front of him. 

 

Louis doesn’t bother looking up at the deliverer of the pink concoction. Instead, he slides it back in their direction with his free hand (his other is firmly connected to his forehead to prevent him from succumbing to the urge to faceplant onto the sticky bar and wait for death’s cold grip) and mutters a short but polite “I’m not drinking, thanks” in return. 

 

Louis wishes he was drinking but he’d learnt many years ago that drinking to drown his sorrows never ended well, not for him. He wasn’t like Niall who could play up his loveable charm and write a handful of hauntingly beautiful songs whilst still half pissed, or Liam who somehow managed to escape the Payne Chain years relatively unscathed. No, Louis getting drunk whilst sad was a total disaster area of scandals and paps getting bonuses so big they were able to buy that yacht they’d always been dreaming of. One had even sent him a fruit basket as a thanks after a particularly messy night back in 2015. Prick. 

 

And that is why he’s stone cold sober in a gay club in Ibiza with a pounding headache, his assistants no doubt two sheets to the wind and who the fuck knows where, and a stranger with a pink cocktail still stood by his side. Fucking hell, can he not get a break? Louis reluctantly glances up and is met with soft brown curls cascading messily and oh fuck oh fuck, Louis starts to feel the world slipping away beneath him. What the fuck is- wait? That’s not Harry’s voice. Harry isn’t Spanish, is he? Louis catches himself mid thought - no you twat, he shakes his head pulling himself back to reality, your husband who you have know for  _ 10 fucking years  _ definitely isn’t Spanish. Get a grip Tomlinson. 

 

Louis risks a searching look in the direction of the curly haired stranger, confirming that he is indeed not Louis’ husband (and seriously, Louis needs to sort his shit out because  _ of course _ Harry hasn’t flown out to Ibiza to buy him a pink cocktail. Harry hates Ibiza. And Louis, probably). He is pretty though. He’d be exactly Louis’ type if he wasn’t so fucking miserable and destined to be alone forever. And married... but then again, it’s not like that matters anymore is it? 

 

Louis attempts to smile but has a feeling it comes across more as a grimace. 

 

The stranger looks at him with earnest eyes (urgh, Louis is such a sap, he’s always been a sucker for a big pair of pretty eyes) and pushes the cocktail back towards him “You look like you need it” The soft Spanish lilt of his accent gives his words a delicate rasp.

 

In another life, Louis would be jumping his bones, turning on the charm, sucking in a pout that he knows makes his cheekbones pop. But this is not another world and Louis Tomlinson is not that lucky. Instead, he’s a heartbroken closeted celebrity who is desperately trying to keep his shit together and act like he doesn’t just want the world to end. If it did though, anytime now would be fine, he thinks, just in case the gay gods have an asteroid attack planned for earth. His earlier attempts at asking them to pick him for an early grave had gone rudely unanswered. Fucking fuck the lot of them. Louis flips the bird at them in his head and briefly wonders if this is what the start of a breakdown feels like. Definitely booking in with his shrink when he’s back home. Definitely. 

 

“Honestly, I’m fine. I was just leaving anyway.” Louis swings his legs round on his barstool to face the opposite direction and gently pushes himself off towards the door. The fact that his feet have to go a good half meter to reach the ground is just because the barstools are tall. It is absolutely nothing to do with his height. 

 

He waits a beat before moving off, half wondering if his cocktail baring friend might grasp his arm and spin him around to insist that he stays before whisking him away into the night. Of course, nothing happens and when Louis glances back, he sees that the guy has already moved on to the next sad figure cutting a silhouette at the bar. Bullet dodged lad, bullet dodged. 

 

Louis glances around the club, but Eleanor and co are nowhere to be seen. He whips out his phone, sending off a quick text to let her know he’s heading back to the apartment and to throw all the drinks for the night on his card. He briefly considers reminding her to not do anything he wouldn’t, but really the sentiment is lost given that Louis’ current hobbies included crying whilst watching old  _ Friends _ repeats on Netflix and sobbing every time he walked past a smoothie bar. She’s a big girl. She can look after herself. 

 

He’s just about to flick through his contacts to find the number of his driver when his phone pings up a text message notification. And another. And another. 

 

_ “LoUis imm sory sorry. Just not fair is it¿Jst not fair. Becaaussee I love u but u do nt love me not any mor so am drinkin winE and a pInK cocktail. Hehe cock. From a man. But not you. WiSH he was u.” _

 

_ “S’just not same when snot you. Snottttttttt.heh.  He had a beard Lou. Not like elounor. ProPer 1.” _

 

_ “Miss U. loVe u. Did u no Niall is a pretty tree?” _

 

Attached to the last text is what Louis assumes is meant to be a selfie. It’s blurry and Harry’s face is only in the outer corner of the picture. He recognises it as one of the streets in Stoke Newington, not far from Harry’s flat. The scene is bathed in the orange glow of street lamps and Louis relieved to see there’s no one else around. Well, he’s sort of relieved - the plus side is that no one will have footage to flog on to the highest bidders in the morning. The downside is that Harry is a liability when he’s this far gone and if the selfie is anything to go by, he’s walking dangerously close to the road. 

 

Louis doesn’t want to do it, he really doesn’t, but as much as he cannot stand Harry right now (the drunken texts only adding to pain caused by the knife that’s been firmly lodged in his heart for the past week or so), he doesn’t want him hurt. Or dead. Fuck, Louis can’t even consider that. He flicks back to his contacts and scrolls until he finds the number of the last person he wants to speak to but realistically, the only person it makes sense to call. With a steadying deep breath, he hits ‘Call’. 

 

Fuck you, Harry Styles, and all the bullshit that you put me through, Louis thinks to himself as he waits for the person on the other end to pick up. Fuck. You. 

  
  
  
  


~~~~

Harry knows that he should probably be texting Niall right now, because this is the epitome of hitting the self destruct button, but really, how is he expected to text when his phone is upside down and wrong way up and there’s a polite tree just across the way who wants to have a conversation? Harry giggles to himself, a soft hiccup catching in his throat, and stumbles over his own feet. 

 

The movement jostles him from his thoughts and he stares down, trying to work out why he has four golden glittery boots beneath him instead of two. “Must have grown some extra legs today!” he mumbles merrily to himself, another giddy giggle escaping his lips. Anyway, where was he? Ohhhhh yes, a friendly tree. He needs to talk to the friendly tree about why Niall shouldn’t be texting when his phone is wearing golden boots upside down. Now then, just a one and a two and a off we go!

 

Harry stumbles forward, and really it was very unfair for someone to have given him this extra pair of legs. He’s in no fit state to be learning the ropes with a new skill right now. He’ll get his assistant to write a strongly worded letter of complaint in the morning, yes diddly yesingtons. But for now, the tree. Harry lurches forward again, swaying dangerously towards the edge of the pavement. Firm hands around his waist stop him. 

 

“Hello tree!” Harry cheerily declares in a sing song voice. 

 

A wry chuckle spills from the lips of the man behind him. “I’m not a tree darlin’. And you are proper fuckin’ pissed aren’t you?”

 

Huh. Harry is sure he knows that voice. He looks over towards the tree in front of him again. Why does it sound like it’s behind him and since when did trees have hands? And why won’t the pavement stop fucking moving underneath him? There shouldn’t be this many waves, he is not a boat. 

 

“I am not a boat.” Harry’s voice sounds sad and wobbly and oh god, he’s going to be sick. 

 

The hands on his waist move up to firmly rub between his shoulder blades as Harry wretches violently “I’m not a tree and you’re not a boat. Come on Sue, bring it all up”

 

Harry wants to tell the tree that his name isn’t Sue, it’s Harry, but another wave of nausea hits him and bitter bile pushes through his nose. The energy of it makes him stumble again, but strong hands are there to catch him. If they hadn’t been, Harry would absolutely have ended up face down in a puddle of his own sick. Lucky this tree is here to look after him, hey? Lovely tree. 

 

At this thought, Harry’s world quite literally turns upside down as the tree lifts him up and over its shoulder. 

 

“Fuckin’ el Haz, has Ben got you on the muscle gain shakes again? You weigh a bloody ton!”

 

Now, Harry might look gangly and delicate and sort of willow reed thin, but he’s surprisingly strong for all of that and 8 years of boxing lessons weren’t for naught. The fact that he’s currently too pissed to remember just exactly how to throw a punch is by the by and he hammers violently on the back of the stranger carrying him, legs flailing in the air. 

 

“PUT ME DOWN! I AM NOT A HOBBIT! I AM NOT A HOBBIT!”

 

“Fucks sake Sue, you’re gonna break me fucking ribs and what the fuck are you on about with hobbits?” Harry is planted firmly back on the ground. Well, firmly might be a bit generous given how much he’s swaying, but his feet are back on the pavement and that’s what really matters. The hands close around his hips again, steadying him on his feet, and Harry takes in a deep breath with his eyes closed. 

 

“Jesus, you really are off your tits, aren’t you? Come on, we’re going back to mine.” One of the hands around Harry’s waist comes up to circle around his wrist, gripping firm and steady, and starts to walk in the direction Harry has just come from. 

 

Harry screams. “STRANGER DANGER! STRANGER DANGER!” A hand quickly seals itself across his mouth, it’s owner letting out an exasperated sigh. 

 

“Harry, I swear to god one of these days I’m going to cut you out of my life and I will miraculously lose these fucking crows feet. I’m not a stranger and the only danger you need to worry about is the fact that you’re so bloody wankered you almost walked out into the road because you wanted to talk to a pissing tree.” The man sighs again “Will you just look at me, dickhead? It’s me. Nick.”

 

Harry’s head snaps up and he tries to focus on the man stood in front of him. It would be a lot easier if this Nick fellow would stand still and if there weren’t two of him, but when was Harry’s life ever easy? 

 

“Nick?” Harry is sure he knows the name but he’s struggling to place the face, what with how blurry it is. Poor guy, imagine having a blurry face. How does he brush his teeth when his mouth keeps moving all over the place? Harry giggles to himself. 

 

“I deserve a fucking knighthood.” Nick mutters to himself under his breath, “Yes Harold, Nick. Dear friend for years, source of many a rumour about your inability to keep it in your pants, saintly gay mentor who you do not fucking deserve” His final words are punctuated with the effort of trying to drag Harry’s lead weight along with him. 

 

Eventually, Harry acquiesces and allows himself to be pulled along. His brain feels all fuzzy and swimmy and his stomach is still churning with the nausea of inebriation. He closes his eyes, hoping that the kind tree man will take him somewhere warm and cosy. Somewhere he can lie down, maybe sleep a little, maybe not even wake up. 

 

He feels a sharp tug to his right arm and lets out a little yelp of pain “Harry, if you pass out I’m gonna bloody leave you here in the street and phone the paps meself.” 

 

Harry mutters an apology and starts to feel tears spilling across his cheeks. He didn’t mean to make the kind tree man shout and his tummy feels all queasy and he doesn’t know where he is and- “I just want Lou. Take me to Lou please. I need him. Need my Lou bear.” Harry’s drunken sobs make the edges of the words blur into each other and Nick wipes the soft cuff of his flannel under Harry’s nose to mop up some of the snot currently streaming towards his mouth. 

 

Nick simultaneously sticks out his other hand, hailing a black cab that’s passing by. It’s not even five minutes walk to his front door but Harry is clearly in not fit state to get himself there and Nick’ll be damned if he’s going to end up with a slipped disc because of Harry fucking Styles. He hauls Harry into the cab with all the grace of a wet sock, and wraps his arms firmly around him, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead. “Oh Sue, you’re a proper sorry state aren’t you? What the fuck’s he done this time? Want me to break his knees love? Want me to get Pig to bite his bloody ankles?”

 

At this, Harry’s wailing grows even louder and more distressed. “No. Me. It was me. Break my knees. I deserve it. Louis is an angel and I...I am not even a boat” Harry ungraciously places his legs across Nick’s lap and pulls one of the arms that had been wound around him to hit clumsily at his own kneecaps. 

 

“Christ, Harry. I’m not gonna break your knees. And what the fuck is it with you and boats tonight? Stop it. Harry, stop.” Nick grips Harry’s wrists with his spare hand and uses the other to push his legs from his lap. “Come on, up you get. Up. Fucking hell seriously, how are you this heavy? We’re here now. You’re staying the night.” Nick throws a couple of £20 notes in the taxi drivers direction - it’s only a £5 fare but he hopes this would spare them both the humiliation of “Gryles Knee Breaking Kink Shocker” being plastered on the front of the Express in the morning. Wouldn’t be the first time. 

 

Somehow, Nick manages to get Harry up the stairs and inside his flat without further incident or injury. He shoves him unceremoniously in the direction of the sofa and fills a pint glass with water from the tap. It’s luke warm and a bit limescaley but Harry won’t notice and Nick can’t be arsed to remember how the filter on his fridge works. It’s 2am and he’d been just floating in the edge of sleep when Louis had called and sent him the grainy photo of Harry’s pitiful form walking down Stoke Newington Church Street. At least he wasn’t on the breakfast shift anymore hey? And at least Nick had managed to find him. He doesn’t let himself linger on the thought of what would have happened if someone else had found him. Or if no one had found him - he did just stop him from walking out into traffic after all. 

 

He sits down next to Harry on the sofa and places the pint glass in his hands, being sure to wrap both of them securely around it before letting go. “Come on then Sue, drink up and tell me what happened. Actually, no, start without how you’ve got into this state first. Need to know how likely you are to need a bucket beside the bed before you pass out.”

 

Harry scrambles through his thoughts, muddy and jumbled through the weight of intoxication. He huffs softly to himself “Dunno. Had some wine, and some more wine. Had a pretty pink drink with a sparkler in it. I love sparklers. Do you ever think what it would be like to be a sparkler?” His giggle peters out quickly at Nick’s harsh glare. Harry coughs, the taste of sick still lingering in his mouth. “Smoked a bit of something, got offered a couple of lines but I didn’t want them, had another cocktail and now I’m here. Mick, when can I see Lou? Is he here?” Harry’s head whips around expectantly 

 

“Nick, it’s Nick Hazza. Who the fuck is Mick? And fine, wine and weed I can deal with. If you’d been coked up to the eyeballs I’d be calling Niall because I’m not dealing with you on a bloody come down. Once and never again.”

 

At the mention of Niall’s name, Harry half remembers that he was meant to do something earlier “Niall was meant to text my shoes but his tree was upside down.”

 

Nick sighs for what feels like the eight thousandth time and wonders why he hadn’t retired to Majorca yet. Soft sand, warm sea, endless sangria, no dealing with a drunk Harry Styles. He’s getting too old for this, he thinks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He’d hoped maybe after stepping down from Breakfast, he’d find inner peace and a solid sleep schedule. No such luck. 

 

He turns back to Harry, ready to wheedle out of him exactly what he’d done to push himself into such a state of self destruction on a Monday evening. He doubts it’s as bad as Harry was making it out to be. Never was. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was all Louis and Harry was just being a stubborn, protective little sod. But by the time Nick’s ready to open his mouth, Harry is already asleep, snoring softly and drooling onto Nick’s velvet throw cushions. 

 

Tomorrow then, Nick thinks. He’ll get to the bottom of it all tomorrow. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thing is though...I am not a boat. And neither is Harry. And I imagine, neither are you.
> 
> Any boats who are reading this though, please do get in touch. For science. 
> 
> (Also +1 for platonic Gryles)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, strap yourselves in loves. We're ramping up the angst in this chapter. Did I cry whilst writing it? It's impossible to say (lol jokes of course I did, I'm a massive sap)
> 
> Shout out to Martina whose response to the short snippet I shared of this whilst I was writing was "WHAT ARE YOU DOING???? Ow my heart"
> 
> We do finally get a bit of smut in this chapter because I need to convince Keris to keep reading but also yeah...I’m sorry?
> 
> Maybe make a cup of tea before you get started? Or don't, if you're joining Harry in the "no hot drinks" club. Whatever is best. You do you love, you do you.

Harry’s head feels like it’s about to explode. He’s pretty certain that a family of tiny mice have taken up residence just inside his right temple and that they’re currently using a drill to do who the fuck knows what. That’s the only reasonable explanation for why that noise is so fucking loud, surely? And why it’s so unrelentingly carrying on.  Oh no, wait….. Oh thank god, they’ve stopped. Thank you Mice. Very kind of you. 

 

Harry takes a moment to bask in his reprieve from the incessant mechanical whirring and snuggles himself down under the blankets. He yawns sleepily as he burrows, shifting a little to avoid the damp patch of drool that’s spilled from his lips overnight (an occupational hazard of being Harry Styles). He’s just about falling back into a light snooze when the sound starts up again, a deep, churning whirring noise that quite honestly might split his skull in two. 

 

“I do not remembering giving you permission to do this little Mouse Family. Please would you desist.” Harry mutters sleepily to himself through a groan. He burrows down deeper, pulling the blankets up and over his head. 

 

“Still pissed then Hazza?” 

 

Huh. Why does that mouse sound so much like Niall and when did he switch out his Venetian silk pillows for chartreuse velvet and why isn’t Louis snuggling him right now? A dream maybe? Yeah, definitely a dream. 

 

“Morning princess, drink up” Ok, that mouse sounds a lot like Nick. Clearly his brain is just working through all the N named friends he has, which is different, sure, but not the strangest dream he’s ever had. Although his dreams aren’t normally so vivid. Or so loud. And definitely don’t normally involve someone punching him in the shoulder and- fucking OW that actually, properly hurts. 

 

“Hazza you twat, wake the fuck up and drink your juice. We need to talk.” Ah, ok no definitely not a dream. Niall’s mouth is right next to his ear, his fingers digging into his shoulders and fuckity ow, he does not deserve this level of pain first thing. 

 

“Nialler, piss off and lemme sleep. Who died and made you the king of mornings?” Harry is still stubbornly refusing to open his eyes, hoping that maybe if he waits long enough he’ll be left alone and this beast of a headache will sod off. 

 

“Firstly, it’s not the morning. It’s half two in the afternoon and Nick has to go to work soon which is why I, your poor put upon best mate, have had to cancel a day of golf to come here and look after your sorry arse. Secondly, you’re a self destructive dickhead who expressly told me “Niall if I start to go off the rails, you’re the boss of me, king of my life, 110% in control” so ha, you’ve only got yourself to blame there and thirdly,  _ thirdly _ ,” Niall jabs Harry hard in the ribs to emphasise the point, “you’re a massive twat. You don’t get to moan when you brought this on yourself and when you had your heartbroken husband sending out a search party to look for you at 2 in the fucking morning because he was worried you’d end up dead. So open your eyes, drink your fucking juice and get yourself ready for a talking to.” Niall sucks in a long breath, readying himself to continue his tirade if Harry doesn’t stir. Thankfully for everyone in the room, he does. 

 

Groggily, Harry drags himself to sit up. His hair is tangled into greasy knots and his mouth tastes like shit. He can tell that there’s a huge crease running down the side of his face where it was smushed into the cushion he’d spent the night on, and he can feel the dry patch of spit that’s settled on his chin. He blearily blinks his eyes open, sensitive to the light that’s streaming into the room, and surveys the dark green juice that Nick is holding before him. 

 

“Shoved some extra wheatgrass and a bit of maca in for you. You’re gonna be proper hangin’ today babe. Should help shift you through the worst of it though” Once Harry takes the juice and starts gingerly sipping at it, Nick turns his attention to Niall. “Thanks for takin’ over. Help yourself to whatever, fuck knows what’s in the cupboards but if you find it, it’s yours. Dog walker comes over in an hour or so but she just lets herself in the back, so she shouldn’t bother you. Don’t be too harsh on him mate. He was a proper state. Not seen him that bad for a long time”

 

Niall nods, and then stands to follow Nick over to the door. Harry doesn’t bother to look at them, instead focusing on slowly drinking the sludge green concoction Nick had prepared for him. He can hear both Nick and Niall speaking in hushed tones and he’s pretty certain he’s the topic of their discussion. He’s feeling self pitying enough as it is though - trying to listen out for whatever two of the most important people in his life are whispering about him would almost definitely do more harm than good. 

 

Harry hears the door click shut and finally turns to look in Niall’s direction, where he’s stood leaning against the door frame, arms folded across his chest. 

 

“You gonna explain what happened Haz or am I gonna have to kick it out of ya? Because I’ll do it if I have to.” Niall tensely runs a hand through his hair and Harry notices that it’s fluffier than usual, which probably means he’d come straight over after hopping in the shower. “Jesus Harry, seriously, twice in a week you’ve had me worrying if you’re gonna properly go off the rails. You can’t do this to me, I’m too young for a fuckin’ heart attack”

 

“Sorry.” The world lies heavy on his tongue, nowhere near enough to fully express how he feels, which, in all honesty, is pretty fucking dire. If the ground could just swallow him up right now, that would be fantastic. He’s got the hangover from hell, his best mate is clearly furious with him, Nick had to deal with him in god knows what state last night (because Harry sure as hell can't remember) and apparently, somehow he’d managed to drag Louis into this whole sorry state of affairs too. Harry isn’t certain if he’s ever hated himself quite as much as he does in this moment. 

 

“Sorry is a start mate, but I’m afraid you’re not getting off that easily.” Niall moves over to sit beside Harry, wrapping an arm firmly around his shoulders and gently squeezing his arm. “What the hell were you doing out on a Monday night anyway? On your own? Not like you that Hazza, not like you at all.” Niall might be furious with him, but the concern is evident in his voice. Harry hates that he’s made him feel this way. Louis and Liam’s emotions come easily, but making Niall sad is a whole different ball game. For Harry to have done it twice in quick succession, well, that’s really quite something. 

 

He sighs heavily and tips the near empty smoothie glass to his lips, savouring the final dregs. It might have looked like crap but it tasted good - God bless Nick and his geeky obsession for health foods. He closes his eyes briefly and tries to pull up the memories of last night. The end of it, the bit that got him from wherever he was to Nick’s, is a total blank, but the start is still relatively clear.

 

“I just...I just needed to not feel everything quite so much, y’know? Louis is over in Ibiza and he’s probably having a whale of a time without me, and I met with management yesterday afternoon,” Niall shoots Harry a concerned look and opens his mouth to speak, but Harry cuts him off before he can get a word out. “I know Nialler, I know, I shouldn’t be meeting with them on my own. I mean, that’s how this whole situation got so messed up isn’t it? But it was a last minute thing and I thought that maybe if I laid it out properly, they’d change their minds on it all. They didn’t though. Obviously.” Harry lets out a long, frustrated sigh and ruffles his hand through his hair, flipping it back. It was one of his anxious tics, and he’d spent years with stylists telling him to leave his bloody hair alone, but he couldn’t ever bring himself to stop. It was comforting and reminded him of the way his mum used to fluff his hair up when he was younger. 

 

“So yeah, met with management and it was shit and then I just couldn’t face the thought of going back home. Eleanor had some more of my stuff sent over - think she’s trying to do as much of it as she can whilst Louis isn’t in the house. But I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it. I just want Lou back, I’d get rid of everything if I could have Lou.” Harry’s words become fragmented as he struggles to hold back his tears. He knows he needs to pull himself together enough to give Niall the full story. He needs some accountability, needs someone to know what happened. He needs someone to help keep him from floating away. 

 

“Go on pal, keep going. I’m not gonna judge, you know that right? Just want to know what happened so I can help make it alright. Just worried about you.” Niall kisses Harry’s shoulder, a familiar sign of affection between the two of them. It’s reassuring and grounding enough that Harry manages to push himself to continue.

 

“Thanks Nialler. Appreciate it. So yeah, I was feeling like shit and thought I’d just go out y’know? I was only going to have a couple of glasses, to just take the edge of and pass the time until the movers were done. But that turned into a bottle, and then another and then this guys with a beard bought me over a cocktail and you know what I’m like when I’ve had a few. Can’t ever resist a cocktail.” Harry smiles with sad eyes and lets out a long, pitiful exhale. He knows he needs to share what happened next, but in all honesty, it makes him feel like absolute shit. He is a horrible, horrible human being. Niall is silent beside him, watching carefully as Harry steels himself to go on. 

 

“And yeah, he umm, well he kissed me.” Niall lets out a soft  _ fuck _ next to him, “I pulled back straight away Niall, I promise. I didn’t want it, I really didn’t. But you know I get flirty when I’m drunk and he must have just got the wrong idea. I told him I wasn’t interested, and he said that was fine but he stayed with me and we drank a bit more and smoked half a splff and he offered me a bit of coke but I said no, I definitely said no. And then it all goes a bit fuzzy. I think I must have got a cab back to Stokey? I know he wanted me to go home with him, said I couldn’t look after myself, but I must have managed to ditch him somehow.” Harry swallows, his mouth thick with guilt.

 

“Fucking hell Hazza. That’s… Christ, you’re lucky you’re still in one piece. What a fucking creep. And jesus, look mate, I hate to ask but ummm… do you know if anyone saw? Like, if they saw the kiss? Just need to know if I need to make any calls is all.” Niall looks as uncomfortable as Harry feels. Harry hates putting him through this, hates feeling like he needs people to be cleaning up his mess after him. It’s his inability to fix this sort of thing for himself that had pushed things to quite the stage of fucking catastrophe they were currently in. He wishes that for once, he could actually hold things together for longer than 30 seconds. 

 

“I don’t think so. I don’t know for sure but it was dark in the bar and pretty exclusive, and y’know Monday nights are never the busiest. I didn’t notice any cameras but I was pretty far gone, so it’s not a dead cert. He didn’t take any pictures of us though and I’m pretty sure I didn’t leave with him. Think we’re safe, unless someone got a shot of me leaving. Guessing I’ll have looked pretty fucked.”

 

“That’s one less thing I guess isn’t it?” Niall shoots Harry a soft smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “Look, you’ve had a rough night from the sounds of things and clearly we’re not gonna fix all this straight up, so how about you hop in the shower and I nip out to grab us something to eat. I’m fucking famished and I reckon your hangover munchies will hit any time now. What do you fancy? Full English? Pastries? Something wanky from Whole Foods?”

 

Harry nuzzles in closer to Niall, tucking his head into the crook of his neck. He’ll get up in a minute, but for now he just needs to have the comfort of being this close to his best friend, of feeling just a little bit less alone than he truly is. “I don’t mind Nialler, your choice. Just… no tea ok? I don’t think I’m ready for tea yet. Not today.”

 

Niall kisses Harry again, this time right on the crown of his head (greasy hair be damned). “Course not Hazza. Course not.”

  
  
  


~~~~

  
  


Louis smiles wide and bright at the feeling of soft lips caressing their way down his spine. Gentle butterfly kisses, just the way he likes them, sending sparks of electricity straight down to his cock. He feels it twitch underneath him and shifts his hips to find friction against the mattress. He ruts once, twice, three times before he feels fingers squeezing lightly at his hips. 

 

“Nahuh Lou. I’m in charge today. Wanna take care of yooooouu” Louis feels a gentle nip at the top of his left bum cheek, and giggles at the sensation. 

 

“Alright, alright, you’re in charge today but just this once ‘k love? Can’t have you getting too big for your boots now can we?” Louis grins as he winds his arm around behind his back, reaching out to tangle his fingers through Harry’s curls. It’s cute when Harry tries to take charge, he thinks to himself, kind of like when a puppy thinks it’s a fully grown dog. A bit clumsy and awkward but mostly fucking adorable. And also hot, which, yeah ok, that’s not like a dog, thank fuck. 

 

Harry’s curls feel different today. Tighter and smoother and fuck, why are they moving like that? “Haz babe, you alright?” Louis can’t feel Harry’s lips on him any more and the warm feeling of Harry’s hands enclosing his hips has suddenly turned ice cold. “Hazza? Haz? Talk to me love.”

 

At Harry’s lack of response, Louis forces open his eyes and spins himself around. He tries to scream but no sound will come out. The sight in front of him chills him to the bone - his eyes take in the cold grey corpse of his husband, lingering on the hands that are rigidly frozen in place where they had been clasped around Louis’ hips. In place of his curls, thin white worms form a halo around Harry’s head, wriggling down towards the hollowed out sockets where green eyes used to brightly shine. Louis can’t breathe, he cannot fucking breathe, he needs oxygen and an ambulance and where is everyone and why can’t he find his fucking phone? And why can’t he fucking scream?

 

Louis is jolted awake by the blaring sound of his alarm going off and the feeling of a cool hand on his forehead. The alarm is silenced quickly, the spare hand of the person sat beside him reaching it before Louis can even bring himself to move. 

 

“Shush Lou, it was just a dream love. Just a dream” 

 

“Mum?” Louis feels a small wave of relief wash over him. Sure, he’s sporting a semi right now but at least she’s here because fuck that was one hell of a nightmare. 

 

The woman next to him lets out a soft sigh. “Ah Lou, no I’m sorry love. Not your mum, she’s gone remember? It’s El. You’re ok Lou, it’s alright. You know where you are, yeah? Cup of tea on the side for you when you want it. Sounded like a proper fucker of a dream that one.” The hand on his forehead doesn’t stop stroking but the comfort it brought is gone. Louis feels like the ground has given out beneath him, a vast emptiness swelling in from all sides. 

 

He hasn’t had night terrors for a long while, not since.. Well, not since just after his mum passed. He’d had a stretch of them for a couple of months straight after and Harry would always be there with him when he woke up. He’d taken to sleeping with the hall light on and the door open, which he would never let anyone other than Harry know because honestly, he was nearly 30 and he’d suddenly become afraid of the dark and surely that was a bit pathetic, even by Louis’ standards. But Harry had never said a word, and would alway be the one to hop back out of bed if either of them turned it off out of habit. When they’d had friends stay over, Harry would be the one to claim that he needed the light leaving on for “spiritual reasons”, because of course he did. Of course. 

 

Louis has missed Harry over the past week or so, of course he has, but this feeling right now, god it’s so much more intense than anything he’s felt so far. He feels like a massive baby, because honestly all that he wants is his soon to be ex husband and his mum, who is now long gone. And yet, here he is with no one but his fake girlfriend for company and half a hard on after a wet dream gone wrong. He wishes he could cry, blurt out some tears over how much he hates his life, but the combination of fear and arousal mean that the tears don’t flow. They stay stuck behind his eyes, and his words catch at the back of his throat as he opens his mouth to speak.

 

He reaches blindly towards the cup of tea Eleanor had placed beside him, and shoots her his best attempt at a smile as she turns the handle to meet his hand. One of the many things Louis is grateful for about having Eleanor as an assistant is that she knows how to make a decent brew. And yeah ok, maybe at the beginning, it had been one of the things that he’d been a bit of a prick to her about and there might have been a small stretch of time where she deliberately fucked it up just to prove a point, but these days things were good. Him and El were good and sure, she’s nowhere near to being a replacement for his mum, and god, definitely no replacement for Harry. But she does care about him, in her own way, and he’s glad that their relationship is more than just professional. These days he’d call her a friend, and friends are what he needs right now.

 

“Thanks El,” The words don’t come easily but the tea definitely helps, “I’m alright. Promise. Just a bit of a shit dream, think I was being chased by zombies or something. Should know better than to watch  _ The Walking Dead _ before bed but you know what I’m like.” He shoots her what he hopes is a convincing smile. It is absolutely not.

 

“You’re full of shit Lou, but I’m not gonna push it. You were screaming his name you know? That’s what woke me up. But look, it’s fine, you don’t have to tell me.” Her fingers finally stop stroking Louis’ forehead and instead come to rest gently on his shoulder. “D’ya want me to stay or shall I leave you be?” 

 

“I think,” Louis takes another sip of tea, letting the sensation of it slipping down his throat soothe him just a little, “I think maybe I just need to be on my own but umm, El?” Eleanor glances back down at him having already stood up ready to leave the room, “Can you leave the door open just a smidge please? Just y’know, just in case you need me for something?” He knows that Eleanor won’t buy this for a second, but thankfully she just nods and leaves the door cracked open as she heads back out towards the hallway of their little Spanish villa. 

 

Louis carefully places his mug back on the bedside table and lies back down, settling himself into the pillows. He briefly considers closing his eyes and trying to fall back to sleep, but he knows that if he does that he’ll just be met by the haunting images of his dream and yeah, he’d rather not. Instead, he stares blankly at the ceiling for a few minutes before picking up his phone. He’d put it on flight mode after calling Nick last night, not wanting to risk the possibility of any more messages from Harry so close to sleep. He takes a deep breath, and gently thumbs at his lock screen, tapping the little aeroplane symbol that brings his phone back to life.

 

He’s hit by a stream of texts and notifications. Most of them are pretty standard - there’s one from Liam the group chat about what colour scheme they should use for the album artwork and the usual string of messages from fans on his latest instagram post. There’s a short but efficient message from Nick -  _ “Got him, all ok. He’s a prick but he’s safe.” _ and a couple more from Niall letting him know he was heading over to Nick’s to give Harry a talking to. But that’s not what catches his attention.

 

No, the thing that catches his attention is the photo that’s sitting in his inbox of a very tipsy Harry. A very tipsy Harry being kissed by another man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How we doing? You good? You hydrated? You excited for the next chapter? And by excited I mean cursing my name and screaming obscenities at me from behind the screen. Same difference innit?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you didn’t properly hydrate after the last chapter, please go hydrate yourself right now. 
> 
> Back at it with the angst and like remember when this was a cute funny fic with drunk!Harry talking to trees? Ah, halcyon days. It’s gonna be a rough ride for a little while. 
> 
> At least we have each other hey?

The shower helped. It wasn’t quite miraculous, and Harry still felt like death, but like, a milder death. A “maybe I’ve died peacefully in my sleep” type death instead of the “I was definitely hacked to pieces by a combine harvester” experience of before. Anyway, the main thing is that he’s clean and Niall should be back from the shops any time now and the sun is shining, and who can be in a bad mood when the sun is shining hey? Harry whistles to himself. Yes, he has some shit to sort and clearly last night was a bit of a wake up call. But really, he thinks, really everything is going to be ok. 

 

Everything is not going to be ok. Not even remotely. Not at all. 

 

The first thing that pulls Harry out of his reverie is the sound of Nick’s front door slamming hard enough to shake the walls. The second is the sound of his mobile ringing at full volume at exactly the same time as Niall shouts “Harry, do not fucking pick that up.” Harry pulls his hand away from where it had been reaching towards his phone and briefly glances at it to check the caller ID. It doesn’t help -  _ Unknown Number.  _ Weird. It’s rare that Harry gets those these days given how restricted the list of people who have it is. Who the fuck was calling with an unknown number at not even midday and how did Niall know not to answer it? He looks towards Niall expectantly, his ringtone finally petering out. 

 

Niall is breathless and Harry wonders if he’s run back.  Again, weird. Niall does not run, not with his knee being so temperamental. He does look a little pink cheeked and clammy though and yeah, definitely breathless given how he’s leaning on the kitchen counter. The shopping has been thrown carelessly onto the sofa too and Harry would really like to know just exactly what the fuck is going on. 

 

“I’m gonna guess you haven’t looked at your phone yet?” Niall asks, his breathing slowly returning back to normal. He shoves a glass under the tap and hastily gulps it down, water dribbling across chin where he misses his mouth with the first sip. 

 

“Ummm, no?” It’s more of a question than a statement. Harry is starting to freak out, his hangover coming back into sharp focus and his breathing becoming a little more unsteady. Niall is normally pretty unflappable. He’s the calm one. The level headed one. He doesn’t get...flustered. 

 

Niall lets out a long breath, a stream of expletives hidden beneath it. “Ok, well, ummm look mate d’ya wanna sit down?” He gestures towards the sofa and then jerkily moves his hand to point towards an armchair as he takes in the abandoned shopping spilling across its surface. The milk is already starting to sweat and a box of eggs is balanced precariously close to the edge and  Harry fights the urge to tidy them away but now doesn’t seem like the time. Instead he sits himself down, looking up at Niall expectantly. Niall stays put, clinging to the kitchen work surface with a white knuckled grip. 

 

“Niall mate, seriously wha-“ Niall cuts him off with a raised hand as he pulls his phone out of his jean pocket, scrolling with purpose, and then lifts it to his ear. 

 

“Lou? Yeah he’s still here. No he hasn’t. Sure. Yep. Ok. Will call you when we’re done. Make sure you eat something k?” Niall lets out a soft laugh “I know you’re a big boy but you’re also an idiot. Just...let El do her thing y’know? That’s what you pay her for. I know, I know. Ok speak soon.” Niall places his phone face down and finally pushes away from the countertop, moving to perch on the arm of the sofa. There’s a greasy patch leaking through the paper bag that Harry assumes is holding pastries and really, one of them should move it so that it doesn’t stain the cushions. Neither of them do. 

 

Harry still daren’t speak. 

 

“Louis got an email last night from an anonymous account with some pictures of you kissing another guy. And whoever sent them is ready to unleash all kinds of hell on both of you.”

 

Harry can’t breathe. He’d been certain that no one was around last night and the kiss couldn’t have lasted more than a couple of seconds. And how would anyone have had the time to find Louis’ email address since then? Or his number for that matter? It doesn’t make sense. 

 

“Niall, shit I...I don’t even know how anyone managed to see us. It was quick, I’m sure it was. Like god, I know fans are fast but this is genuinely ridiculous. Are you sure it’s me?”

 

Niall’s face drops. “Oh Haz, mate. No, not last night - somehow you came away from that totally unscathed which well, thank fuck. You don’t need a double scandal on your hands. No umm...these are of the other bloke you’ve kissed recently.” Niall coughs awkwardly and looks down towards the sofa, finally shifting the pasties in their now near see through paper bag onto the table. He gently rubs at the small dark stain they’ve left with his thumb, but it doesn’t seem to make the slightest bit of difference. 

 

“Oh.”

 

Harry knows he should say something more, knows he should try and find out just exactly which photos they have and what their demands are and if they know who it might be that’s sent them but he can’t bring himself to think about any of that. No, instead all he can picture is Louis’ face and how devastatingly he fell apart when Harry has told him about the affair. Harry didn’t know it was possible to physically observe the process of someone’s heart breaking in front of you, to see the moment the valves and arteries collapse under the pressure of it all, but he’d seen every moment of it written on his love’s face. And now it’s all his mind can focus on, the room around him a distant blur in comparison. 

 

Niall is talking to him and Harry’s trying to focus on what he’s saying but his head feels like it’s underwater, the words coming through muffled and dampened down. Harry tries to fix his vision on his friend’s lips, hoping that the shapes they make will bring a little of the clarity that his hearing seems to lack, but it just seems to muffle them even more. The soft velvet of the armchair he’s anxiously perched on top of prickles at his skin, which he realises is still bare but for the towel he’d wrapped around his waist after hopping out of the shower. He suddenly feels exposed and pulls the towel a little more snugly around himself. 

 

Outside, a car blares its horn and there’s a sudden screech of tyres against tarmac that fills the room. It pulls Harry back into the world, yanking him from his thoughts and from the creeping panic that was suffocating him mere moments before. 

 

“...-nd so I think the next step is probably to call the lawyers but I guess that’s up to you really.” Niall clearly hasn’t noticed how tuned out Harry had been, his focus still stuck on the greasy mark he’s working with his spit-damp thumb. 

 

“Can I see?” Harry wonders briefly how his life came to this - how he took the best thing he’d ever had and twisted it so far out of shape. He wonders what led him to do the thing that neither of them had ever done, no matter how many fights or arguments or moments of doubt - they’d never cheated on each other. It was the unspoken rule, the one dead certain they stuck to no matter how pissed off or hurt or angry they were. Yes, ok there had been times when both of them came close during moments of separation and obviously, they’d both stunted themselves into oblivion. But Harry had been the first one to break and he hadn’t even had the decency to be subtle about it. No, he’d fucked up in public, and given a nameless pap photographer the gift of a lifetime. 

 

“Hazza, I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’ve seen them anyway haven’t you? Like management have show them to you already?” Niall’s face is set in a frown, his eyes finally glancing up to run gently over his friend’s face. Harry holds out his hand, eye contact firm and unwavering. “Fine, but for the record, I don’t think you should be doing this to yourself.” Niall taps his thumb to the scanner, unlocking his phone as he presses it into Harry’s expectant grip. 

 

The little colour that had been left in Harry’s face drains instantly. 

 

“Niall, are these the only photos that were sent through?” His question is met with an eyebrow raised in confusion and affirmative nod of the head. “Shit.”

 

“‘What’s the matter mate? Thought you’d seen them before with the whole management plan and that. Like you’ve approved them right? Given...y’know?” Niall tries to spare Harry the embarrassment of vocalising just exactly what he and management had been planning to do with those photos. Small graces and all that. 

 

Unfortunately for Harry, it's a topic that can no longer be avoided 

 

“Niall, do you seriously,  _ genuinely _ , think that my grand coming out plan was to publish some grainy topless photos of me with a bloke’s tongue down my throat and...fucks sake Niall you can literally see the outline of my bloody penis pressed up against him. Of fucking  _ course _ I haven’t approved these. Jesus Christ.” Harry pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to take in a deep breath. His previous near catatonic state has been well and truly shaken from him and his bones feel like they might splinter under the pressure he’s exerting to keep himself from punching a wall. Nick might go easy on him for most things, but leaving a fist shaped hole in his living room would probably be pushing it. 

 

Niall holds his hands in front of his chest, palms flat as though he’s trying to soothe a horse that’s ready to bolt “Ok, ok sorry. I did think it was a bit weird but how the fuck was I supposed to know given that you  _ didn’t fucking tell us what your plan was _ .” Niall knows that now is not the time to be airing his frustrations but sometimes, he really does think that people forget he’s human too and that he doesn’t just have an infinite capacity to absorb everyone else’s bullshit without incident. 

 

Harry doesn’t have the energy in him to fight and instead just rolls his eyes and lets out a small huff of frustration. They can battle it out another day, bring Liam in just to give it those real old school pre-hiatus vibes. He’s got bigger shit to focus on today. 

 

“And also,” Harry picks up where he left off, his voice thick with the tension that’s coursing through his veins, “Those pics that management have are pap shots. These, quite obviously, are not. How the fuck does a pap gets  _ inside _ a hotel room Niall? What, do you think he was hiding in the cupboard? I mean I know they’re vultures but that would be a stretch even for them.” Harry holds Niall’s phone up, pointing to the bed in the background. It’s so blurred that Niall had just assumed it was one of the types of bars Harry likes to go to where everything is soft furnishings and luxury upholstering. Evidently not. 

 

“Fuckkkkkk.” Niall draws the word out on an exhale. “So like an anonymous sender, big demands, photos from inside the hotel room? Shit Haz this...this is a set up?” 

 

“Yup, it’s definitely looking that way. And I’m pretty sure that there’s even worse still to come”

 

~~~~~

 

Louis hates airports at the best of times, but he especially hates them when he’s stressed and tired and when he has the image of his husband moments from fucking another man seared behind his eyes. Eleanor had managed to book them onto the first available flight from Ibiza, which was scheduled to leave just two hours after he’d received the call from Niall. Of course though, of fucking course, it was fucking delayed and he’s now been sat waiting for a good hour and a half beyond the planned departure time. He really can’t catch a break. 

 

He’d normally waste some time scrolling Instagram and dragging Calvin for whatever pretentious bullshit he’d decided to caption his photos with this time, but Eleanor has confiscated his phone after she spotted him opening up the email for the 23rd time in a row. So he’s sat in a shitty airport lounge that doesn’t even have any decent magazine with literally nothing to do. The plane really needs to hurry up and board soon or he’s going to lose his fucking mind. Well, the small part of it that was still intact, because Louis’ pretty certain that his sanity is slipping further from his grasp with every passing moment. 

 

“We are not fucking paying for these fucking flights Eleanor, I swear to god you better be writing the best complaint email they’ve ever seen. No, actually, screw it just tweet them from my account and give them hell” Louis is taking no prisoners, not today.

 

“And this, dickhead, is why you don’t have your phone right now.” Louis huffs dejectedly like a stroppy teenager who’s just been grounded, “It’s fine Lou, Oli’s on it. He’s been sweet talking he woman on the desk for the past 30 minutes. Also, seriously, this is like pocket change.What’s the point in fighting on it? Don’t be a twat”

 

Louis refuses to look up, instead pulling his cap down further to hide his eyes. “It’s the principle.” He mutters, mostly to himself. Eleanor’s right, he knows this, just like he knows it’s wrong to want to make some poor, no doubt shittily paid customer service assistant miserable by being a total diva. And yet, he can’t help but want to give in to the temptation to make a complete scene about it all. It wouldn’t make the plane come any quicker but it would maybe make him feel just a bit less pissed off, for oh a whole thirty seconds? Ugh. 

 

Before he gets the chance to act on his destructive urges, a voice comes over the tannoy announcing that first class is finally,  _ finally _ boarding and Louis allows himself a small, sarcastic cheer. As restless as he’s been, he’s also not thrilled about the idea of arriving in London and dashing straight across town to meet his hungover husband, two pissed off band mates and a roomful of lawyers. Maybe his luck will finally come and the plane would crash and he wouldn’t have to deal with any of this, he thinks grimly to himself. He’s pulled from his morose ponderings by Eleanor yanking his arm in the direction of the check in desk - he could never put it past Eleanor to be completely unphased by whatever drama had going on in his life. Wind, rain or shine, she treats him the same and in all honesty, it’s one of the main reasons he’s kept her around for so long. Well, that and the fact that he’s a coward, but he doesn’t particularly want to think about that right now. 

 

“Bloody ‘el Eleanor. Quite like having all my joints in place thanks, I’m comin’, I’m comin’.” Louis drags along behind her, letting her weave their way through the lounge. Thankfully it’s not quite peak season so the first class lounge is even quieter than usual and Louis doesn’t need to put any effort in to avoiding fans in need of selfies, thank fuck. He looks about as shit as he feels and he knows that if the scandal breaks, people will only use the evidence of him being in Ibiza to add to the drama. 

 

As they near the desk, Louis decides to return the favour and tugs sharply on Eleanor’s arm. He definitely doesn't take a moment of pleasure in hearing her pissed off yelp of pain and it  _ definitely  _ isn’t the first time he’s smiled so far today. 

 

“What?” 

 

“Can I have me phone? Just want to check it before boarding. Don’t give me that look Eleanor, I’m a fully grown adult and I just want to check I don’t have any more major surprises waiting for me on the other side. One is quite enough thank you” 

 

“Lou…” The warning tone in Eleanor’s voice is clear, which isn’t surprising given that she’d spent most of her morning calming him down. From the moment he’d woken up screaming Harry’s name, Louis had not been ok. She’d tried her best to soothe him, comfort him, distract him but ultimately she knew it was futile. When Louis is this far gone, she knows the best she can do is wrap herself around him and try to absorb some of the impact from the blow. She doesn’t mind, not really. She just wishes that he had a bit more of a self preservation instinct when everything is falling to pieces because honestly the most exhausting thing about all of this is trying to protect Louis from himself. 

 

She passes him the phone anyway, not having it in her to fight against Louis’ pleading look. Anything for a quiet life. 

 

Louis knows that it’s a bad idea the minute the phone is in his hand but he can’t help himself. And surely, he reasons with himself, it’s better to know anything that’s come through whilst he has a couple of hours on the plane to work out how to deal with it (or more realistically, contemplate drinking himself into oblivion and then cry over a single vodka tonic that he’ll have to nurse until he lands).

 

His emails are clear (save for the usual spam, and no Amazon, he doesn’t want to buy  _ another _ dog lead. Just because he bought one once in 2015, that doesn’t mean he wants to buy one every day for the rest of his life. At some point he should really get Eleanor or Oli or someone to unsubscribe him but ehhhh, who has the time?) and his Twitter and Instagram notifications have the normal flurries of activity but nothing too unexpected (although he’s been tagged into a fairly erotic manip of him and Harry which just, no, now is absolutely not the time). All safe so far. Even his texts are pretty standard, just a quick one from Niall confirming the details of their meeting and reminding him to “ _ eat something you stubborn prick”.  _ Eh, later. 

 

But as Eleanor so frequently likes to remind him, Louis is an idiot, and that’s why just before he boards the plane, he reopens the email that had caused him to cut short his holiday and clicks on the video attached to it. He hadn’t opened it yet - he didn’t want to risk it given the nature of the photos. Oh how he wishes he’d stuck to his gut instinct, how he wishes Eleanor wasn’t such a push over with him and had kept hold of his phone, saved him from himself. 

 

Hindsight is a beautiful thing and if Louis had known that the last thing he saw before stepping on the plane back home would be his husband with another man’s cock buried balls deep inside of him, he would have done anything but open that fucking attachment. But sadly he did not, and there’s not a chance that a single vodka tonic will be enough to get him through. 

 

Louis Tomlinson has just hit self destruct and there’s not a thing that anyone is going to be able to do to stop him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously Louis, SERIOUSLY, you didn’t have to go and do that to yourself (shush we’re ignoring that I’m the one responsible, they write themselves I am a mere conduit)
> 
> My shuffle decided that I should listen to Sign of the Times as I was pulling together the final few paragraphs of this chapter and it was a total knife in the heart. Betrayed by my own Spotify yet again. Rude.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I hate me right now so it’s ok if you hate me too. Comments from friends for the last chapter include “I’m never speaking to you again” and “I’m putting you in the freezer now”. Guessing by the end of this fic it’s just going to be me weeping alone. Fine, fair enough tbh.

Harry is trying to focus on what his lawyers are saying because really, it’s pretty fucking important, but he’s currently distracted by the way Louis is swaying in his chair. He’d come in late, apparently because of delays at Ibiza airport and fine, whatever, but that doesn’t explain why he’s swaying so hard. And why he looks like he’s about to throw up. 

 

“Lou,” Harry lets just a ghost of a whisper escape his lips, his eyes still firmly fixed on the three bland men in front of him, “Are you drunk?” Louis never really gets drunk, not anymore. And definitely not before important meetings. He’s always the one with his head screwed on, he’s the one who’s negotiated them outside of all kinds of shit. It’s one of the things Harry loves the most about him - he’s fiercely intelligent and has such a bright and brilliant mind that he’d been forced to hide for most of their time in the band. For a long while (until his time as an X Factor judge, really), the main place Louis was allowed to show that side of him was when he and Harry were alone. The other place was the boardroom. But that side of Louis was clearly not coming out to play today. 

 

“You,” Louis slurs in reply, “do not get to talk to me anymore.” 

 

Harry knows he shouldn’t push it. He knows that seeing those photos must have been hard on Louis - they made him feel sick and he’d been the one who’d actually enjoyed the moment they were taken. But he also needs Louis to be on board and contributing to this meeting. He can’t do it alone. 

 

“Louis, I know the pictures must have been hard to see but seriously, please drink some water or something. You’ve got to sober up, love.”

 

“I don’t have to do anything actually  _ love _ . You lost all those privileges when you let him put his dick in your arse” Louis hisses in reply. 

 

Harry is confused - he’d told Louis that he’d slept with the Jack, but nothing more than that. He didn’t go into details - he wasn’t that much of a fuck up and didn’t think Louis would want the trauma of who topped and who bottomed. But he also knows that Louis isn’t wrong. The one and only time they’d slept together, Jack had fucked Harry. They didn’t even finish in the end as Harry freaked out and got hit with a huge wave of regret. He’d ended the affair there and then (it hadn’t lasted for even a whole 48 hours but even that had been too much). 

 

“What do you...how do you know that?” Harry notices Niall throw a glance in his and Louis’ direction and shoots him a quick smile, schooling his face into what he hopes is a look of concentration. He isn’t even trying to listen to the room around him anymore and assumes that if anyone particularly heinous is suggested either Niall or Liam will deal with it, but they don’t need to know that. Right now, his heart is jackhammering in his chest and he needs to know why Louis is talking as though he knows everything that went on between he and Jack because none of the photos he’d seen so far were even close to giving that sort of information. 

 

Wordlessly, Louis slides his phone across the short stretch of table between them - it feels like a gulf, honestly, and Harry is reminded of their last meeting with management and how Louis had felt so impossibly distant. It turns out, that was nothing compared to the feeling Harry’s experiencing now. He sends a searching look in Louis’ direction, but it’s meaningless. Louis doesn’t necessarily seem all that in control of his body right now, still swaying softly in his seat, but he does at least seem to be able to fix his gaze anywhere but towards Harry. 

 

There’s a video loaded, just a black screen with the control button glaring white against it. Harry hits play and oh shit fuck shit, the fucking sound is on. Lewd groaning fills the room alongside the not so gentle slapping of skin against skin and fucking _ hell _ why won’t his fingers work and  _ wonderful _ , now he’s dropped it. The noise continues and Harry scrambles frantically towards the floor to try and make it stop. Unfortunately, he manages to time this exactly with Louis’ drunken lurch (seriously, mirroring, the bane of their lives) and their hands clash as they both reach for the phone. Louis pulls away instantly like he’s been shocked, leaving Harry to desperately smash his fingers at the screen. He finally manages to silence the video, locking the phone in the process and carefully throwing it back towards Louis’ slumped form. He’s crumpled on the floor beside the leather conference chair he’d been struggling to stay put in since the meeting started, and is cradling his hand as though he’d been genuinely injured when he collided with Harry. 

 

Harry isn’t sure he’s ever seen Louis look quite as broken as he does right now - worse even than the other night when Harry had come home and told him about the pictures and about how management thought they would be a useful tool for him to come out without needing to force Louis’ hand. Seeing him this way, knowing that it’s his fault...it’s more than Harry’s heart can bare. He starts to feel tears prickling but no,  _ no _ , he can’t cry now. He doesn’t deserve to cry. 

 

One of the lawyers politely coughs and oh yes, there are other people in the room. Harry doesn’t move from the floor, he can’t, not when Louis is down there too, not when he looks like this. He does, however, raise his eyes to survey the looks being shot in his direction from around the table. The lawyers look….uncomfortable, Niall looks like he’s about 10 seconds away from decking someone (possibly Harry) and Liam, well, Liam looks like Liam. Earnest, concerned and clearly trying to do the maths on exactly how fucked the band is going to be if this leaks.

 

_ Very  _ is the answer.

 

“D’you ummm, d’you wanna explain Haz?” Niall sounds as uncomfortable as he looks, which makes sense given that he’s just been exposed to nearly a full minute of the sounds of his best mate,  _ who is technically married to one of his other best mates _ , being fucked by a total stranger. As if he wasn’t traumatised enough from years of hearing Harry and Louis not so subtly going at it on the tour bus. 

 

Louis speaks before Harry even has the chance to open his mouth “What is there to explain Niall?” His voice is cold, emotionless, and yet it still makes Harry’s heart ache with the love that streams through his veins, “My Husband got himself fucked by another man and was stupid enough to let himself be filmed. Fucking exhibitionist wanker.”

 

“Lou Bear, I didn’t know it was bei-“

 

Louis snaps his head towards Harry “How many fucking times do I have to tell you not to call me that. We’re done Harry. Done.” Venom laces every word that’s spat in Harry’s direction, not a hint of kindness to be found. Louis pulls himself to standing, wobbling a little as he does so. Harry stays seated on the floor, unable to move, rooted to the spot with shame and hurt. He closes his eyes for a moment, still blinking back the tears that are been threatening to breech, and opens them again to find Louis’ hand in front of his face, palm flat towards the ceiling. 

 

“Ring please.”

 

“Lou, what, no?” Harry protectively draws his hands to his chest, shielding his right hand from view. Louis can’t be serious surely? He wouldn’t…

 

“Ring. Now. I’m not fucking about. I’ll take it off you myself if I have to.” Louis’ eyes are blazing, burning a hole deep into Harry’s heart that he doesn’t think will ever heal. This was it. This was really the end. He’d hoped that maybe it would all blow over but no, clearly he was not only incredibly selfish but incredibly stupid too. 

 

Reluctantly, Harry unwinds his hands and starts to gently ease the peace ring from his finger. It takes a little effort as it sits tighter now than it had when he was 19. He finally feels the soft ‘ _ pop’ _ of it sliding off and drops it into Louis’ waiting hand. He feels his heart drop with it, a piece of him firmly broken off and placed into Louis’ palm to do with what he wishes. 

 

Louis closes his fingers around and shoves his fist into the trousers of his trackie bottoms. He turns wordlessly from Harry, not even a thank you, and directs his attention to the 5 open-mouthed faces still gathered around the table “Do whatever the fuck you like, it’s his life not mine. Someone can email me over the details of the final recording sessions and I swear to god if I have to see  _ him,”  _ he spits the word as he glances between Liam and Niall, “I will fucking murder you both in your sleep.”

 

“Louis what about-“ You’d think after almost a decade of being in a band, Liam would have learnt when was the right time to raise his concerns. Evidently not. 

 

“Liam, just shut the fuck up for once in your life, and please do not fucking remind me that I’m going to spend 6 months of my life on tour with this shitty excuse for a human being.” Harry feels every one of Louis’ words like a knife against his skin, and wonders if perhaps that might be easier than this. 

 

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go get absolutely shit faced and try to forget that any of this ever happened.” And with that Louis turns on his heel and leaves the room. 

 

The room is silent. Harry wonders if they’re all still even breathing - even the lawyers seem stunned into a state of stillness. Harry knows that it’s on him now - Louis isn’t coming to save the day, he’s not going to be the one with the sharp mind and the fast flowing ideas on how to fix this. No, this is Harry’s mess and Harry is going to have to be the one to sort it. He pulls himself back into his chair, wordlessly taking a moment to smooth the wrinkles in his trousers. Finally, he wills himself to speak, praying that his voice doesn’t crack under the weight of everything that’s just unfolded. 

 

“So, lets umm..let’s carry on shall we? I might need a bit of a catch up, got a bit distracted there,” he tries to laugh but the sound falters before it even reaches his lips, “Can you remind me what the demands are and ummm, I think I heard someone mention bringing forward my coming out? Basically, let’s start again from the top yeah?”

 

The lawyers ruffle their papers and one of them, the one Harry always thinks of as the one in charge, starts to speak. Harry is listening this time, he really is, but he can’t help but risk a glance through the glass panelling out into the corridor. 

 

It makes no difference though. Louis is nowhere to be seen. 

 

~~~~

 

Louis knows he should stop, knows he should have stopped three drinks ago when he shouted at Eleanor to fuck off out of the house and take the dogs with her. She did, because this was not Eleanor’s first rodeo and she knew that it was easier to let Louis implode and then pick up the pieces afterwards than to try and convince him to stop once he’d already started. He stumbles hazily towards the fridge, throwing the door open with too much force. It bounces back and hits him in the side - it will leave a bruise for sure, but Louis is beyond caring about something as meaningless as bodily harm. He fucking hates this fridge anyway, hates it because it reminds him of that Dickhead, of that stupid song he wrote about one of the first times they’d broken up. That was never really breaking up though, that wasn’t like this. Yeah, they’d gone a little while without speaking and thought that maybe if they tried just being their own people for a while they’d soon move on. But they never did. They were like magnets, like a ship and a fucking compass, a lighthouse to guide one another home. But now Louis doesn’t have an navigation system, there was no North Star shining brightly for him to follow. No, now Louis is truly alone. 

 

He pulls another beer from the fridge and slams it shut, turning to lean his body against the cool metal as he slides down towards the floor. He feels the sharp scratch of one of Harry’s magnets on his back, stupid souvenirs he brought home from every stop on every tour he’d ever done. It was a tradition that Louis had started when they played their first show overseas in Dublin, and one which Harry had gleefully continued. It was a reminder that Louis very much does not need right now, and he reaches his hand up behind him to sweep as many of them to the floor as he can, letting them scatter noisily across the tiles. 

 

Louis stares blankly at them and cracks open the tab on his beer. He was drinking Stella, cheap and nasty and tasteless, a million miles from the obnoxious indie brand IPA that Harry ordered for him in excess. These were from an off license that he’d had Eleanor pull up in front of as they drove home from that absolute disaster of a meeting, Louis having run inside with his baseball cap low and hoody pulled up, throwing notes towards the till with a gruff  _ ‘thank you’ _ as he barrelled out of the shop with as many cans as he could carry. 

 

Louis knows he shouldn’t but he pulls the peace ring he’d taken from Harry just a few hours before from his pocket. It’s warm. He also knows that it’s just his own body heat that’s made it feel this way, he does, but it doesn’t stop him from pressing the ring to his lips and imagining that it’s the ghost of Harry’s touch caressing him instead. As Louis feels a solitary tear fall across his cheek, he shakes himself from his daydream and hurls the ring across the kitchen. He doesn’t see where it lands, his vision blurred by the tears that are now coming thick and fast, but he hears it clatter to the ground, bouncing a couple of times before it settles. 

 

He thinks to himself that he should try and find it, keep it safe, hide it in a secret place where no one will see his hurt, but he can’t bring himself to move, weighed down by tears and the alcohol swimming through his bloodstream. Instead, he necks the last of his beer and then swivels around on his bum before hauling himself onto his knees in front of the fridge. He pulls out the final 3 cans of shitty larger and lines them up in front of him, tapping the ring pull on the first  _ one, two, three _ . He downs it swiftly, crushing the can and throwing it vaguely in the direction of the bin, whilst using his spare hand to open the next. This one he takes a little slower, giving himself second long pauses to breathe, and then it’s done, finished and he moves onto the last, not even bothering to throw the empty can away. The last can is hard work. His bladder is full and his lungs are burning from the effort of downing so many drinks without real pause to catch his breath. He forces it down though, guzzling and guzzling until he’s sucking on air. He feels full, which, he thinks, is ironic given how empty he is inside. He half wonders if he should eat something, and tries to remember when the last meal he had was - time had all gone a bit fuzzy. This morning? Or maybe last night? He’s not sure. It doesn’t matter right now anyway. No, there’s no space inside him for anything else. 

 

He tries to pull himself to his feet because he really, really needs to piss but his legs have gone all weak and shaky beneath him. He tries again, crawling over towards the breakfast bar in an attempt to use one of the tall stools to clamber up on but that just makes things worse - the stool wobbles precariously and threatens to fall under his weight. He lands back in the floor with a thump. 

 

He grabs one of the empty cans and takes a moment to consider if he’s really going to do this before deciding that it’s either this or piss himself because there’s no way he’s making it across the vast expanse of the open plan kitchen/living room to the downstairs bathroom. The misery of it all floods over him again, overwhelming him and squeezing the air from his lungs. He’s broken and alone, far more drunk than he’s been in years, with the image of another man’s dick in his husband’s arse playing on repeat in his brain and he’s about to piss in a can in the middle of his kitchen floor. As this thought hits, Louis soft tears turn to choked out sobs and  _ great _ , not only is he about to piss in a can he’s going to be sobbing his heart out whilst he does it. 

 

He moves his hand to the waistband of his joggers and starts to pull them down, trying to work out the best angle to do this at, when he hears the front door go. He remains frozen in place, sobs still falling heavily from his throat. He glances up just as Eleanor walks through the door and catches the moment her face falls upon taking in the sight that lays before her - her boss (technically) sat on the floor weeping uncontrollably with his hand ready to pull out his dick and an empty beer can (one of many) in front of his crotch. This is definitely a low point in Louis’ life. He tries to think if there’s ever been a moment where he’s felt this much barefaced shame but he quite honestly can’t recall. 

 

“El,” Louis voice is thin and raspy, shaded by both tears and embarrassment, “Help me. Please.”

 

Not saying a word, Eleanor crouches down beside Louis and loops her arm around his waist. She hauls him to his feet, giving him a moment to steady himself, and slowly, carefully, leads them to the bathroom. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d done this, and it would no doubt be the last, but Eleanor hopes that this is just a one off. Because this time she really isn’t sure if Louis will manage to make it out the other side in one piece. Before there had always been someone - either his mum, or Harry, or even the rest of the band. 

 

Now it’s just him and her though, and Eleanor knows that’s not enough to stop him from going over the edge. It’s nowhere near enough at all

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really want to hug them both. This is so sad. So very very sad. 
> 
> Cuddles anyone?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I’m so sorry for the delay in getting chapter 8 up - I was moving house and had a very hectic work week, so my brain was just a damp grey sock for most of the past week. 
> 
> Anyhoo, here we are, Chapter 8. It’s a sad one (obviously) and nothing really happens apart from EMOTIONS so y’know, enjoy that. 
> 
> There’s a couple of trigger warnings on this one - one for self harm and one for disordered eating. I’m going to explain more in the end notes so that if you’re likely to be triggered you can skip those sections. 
> 
> Anyway, nice to be back and I’m so sorry for how cruel I’m being to our poor Hazza and Lou. I promise things will come good in the end.

Harry cracks the spine of his new journal and sets it down on the table in front of him, pen poised above the page. He knows that if he just lets himself write, he’ll be able to untangle the mess inside his head. He knows that, he does, but it still feels too painful somehow, like the process of watching the ink dry will somehow make it all more real. If it stays inside him, he can let himself believe that it’s all just a terrible dream. If it stays inside him, he can pretend that there’s even the smallest chance that Louis will take him back. 

 

His thoughts are interrupted by a small blot of midnight blue dropping to the page, splattering into a teardrop stain - at least one of them can bring themselves to cry Harry thinks to himself bitterly. 

 

Harry has wanted to cry since the day Louis took his ring back, but he’s all dried up like a reservoir in the height of summer. Or maybe, more fittingly given how his heart is feeling, like a lake frozen over in the dead of winter. Every time he’s tried, he’s just ended up getting angry with himself instead. He’s punched walls, he’s thrown his favourite throw pillow into the street on a rainy evening, he’s ripped pages out of books that used to make his heart sing. He’s shouted at the sky, shouted at God, shouted at the man presenting the weather on BBC News. He’s played sad songs that have made him want to snap all of his records in half, he’s played happy songs that have made him want to throw his speakers out of the window. But he hasn’t cried. Not a single tear. 

 

He’s had enough therapy and been through enough actual grief to know that this is expected, normal even, for a loss of this magnitude. He knows that a broken heart takes time to heal, knows that this is bigger than almost anything he’s ever had to deal with before, and in fact, possibly the biggest because before he always had Louis. And Louis always knew how to make him feel, how to gently crack him open at the side and coax out the tears. He knew that if Harry wouldn’t talk, all he needed to do was dig his fingers into his hips  _ just right  _ and place a hand on his neck, firm and heavy, holding him in place, and then the tears would fall easily, readily, freely. He knew how to make him open up with just a look, how to change the inflection of his voice so that merely saying Harry’s name was enough to let the floodgates open. But Louis isn’t here now and Harry is all alone with just his journal, and his thoughts, and his favourite fountain pen. Tentatively, he places the nib against the page. 

 

“ _ Without you, I am nothing; I am empty, barren, a wasteland. Without you, the sun is gone and I no longer feel the warmth of the light. Without you, I am left with the stain of sweet brambles on my lips and bitter ash in my mouth. Without you. Without you. Without you.” _

 

He stares at the words for a moment before swiping his pen across them in messy, angry strokes. He knows he’s using too much pressure, knows that the delicate nib of his fountain pen isn’t meant to be abused like this, but he honestly can’t bring himself to care. He can feel the prongs starting the split open, bend out of shape, can feel the delicate metal starting to warp and wend, and he pushes harder in response until he hears the brittle  _ snap _ of the nib giving way, breaking beneath him. Ink spills out running freely, a deep blot sinking into the page. It seeps it’s way down into the pages beneath, stains the edges, even works its way out into the leather cover. Harry knows that he should probably try to stop it, but instead he sits transfixed, watching the destruction unfurl. 

 

The journal is all but ruined now, and somehow that’s the thing that springs open the well. 

 

It starts as a single tear rolling slowly across his cheek, small and gentle enough that Harry doesn’t even notice it until a second and then a third follow, softly dripping onto the page and bleaching their marks into the indigo stain. It’s those marks that see his solitary teardrops flood into deeper, heavier sobs, heaving through his body with an unrelenting violence. Now that he’s started, he’s not sure he’ll ever stop, not sure if he even wants to stop. He wants to cry until his tears wash away all of the ink stains that cover him, he wants to cry until his lungs ache and he can no longer breathe, he wants to cry until his eyes itch and his throat burns and he mouth is dry. He wants to cry so viscerally, so wholeheartedly that it will feel alien to stop. 

 

And so he does. He cries and cries and cries some more until he’s left a breathless heap slumped on the table, cheeks pressed into the inky mess beneath him, gasping for air that can’t seem to fill his lungs quickly enough but he doesn’t care. He welcomes the pain, welcomes the stars pressing behind his eyes. He revels in it and lets the lack of oxygen burn through his bloodstream, lets himself wail and weep and wallow. 

 

Eventually though, after who knows how long, he manages to stop almost as suddenly as he began. One ragged inbreath and the room comes back into focus, the corners of his eyes dry and his breath finally seeming to reach his brain. 

 

The crying isn’t as cathartic as when Louis is there, he knows that, but his head feels a little clearer at least, a little less full of mist. He’s a mess on a physical level now though as well as an emotional one, cheeks and hands and arms all covered in a mixture of ink, snot and tears. 

 

It takes more effort than it should to haul himself up from the dining room table and towards the kitchen, his bambi legs even more wobbly than usual beneath him, but he manages. He stares blankly at the sink for a moment, trying his best to blink away the memories of all the times he’s stood there with his hands submerged in soapy water attempting to focus on the washing up whilst Louis has wound himself around his back, snaking his hands down, down, down. They’d lost more than a few wine glasses as a result but as Louis often reminded him, they were rich enough to not need to care, and  _ surely _ , fucking was a lot more fun than cleaning dishes. Louis would have happily eaten off disposable plates every evening though, anything to avoid house work, and never understood how Harry could become so easily attached to a wine glass, never understood why tears would spring go his eyes each time one of them broke. He couldn’t grasp that objects were never just objects to Harry, they were always memories of the moments everyone else forgot, and that alone was enough to make Harry tear up at the thought of losing one of them. 

 

A wine glass was never just a wine glass, not for Harry. No, a wine glass was the moment when Louis had taken one last sip before pressing his lips into Harry’s with a bruising kiss just before he was due to leave for pap walk with Eleanor. A plate might just look like a plate to everyone else, but to Harry it was the sound of a knife and fork scraping noisily in a wordless room after they had fought so ferociously about whether Louis should do X Factor that they didn’t speak for three days. And a spatula was never, ever just a spatula. A spatula was always the sensation of his body vibrating with desire, of his hands pressed firmly against the countertop and his legs spread wide as he tried his best to not let his knees buckle beneath him, waiting for the first heavy stroke to come down from behind. 

 

Objects are always memories and right now, Harry is drowning in them. He needs to escape, needs to be able to breathe because even here, in his flat that is definitely  _ his _ and has never been  _ theirs _ , there are too many of them for him to feel anything other than overwhelmed. 

 

He can’t even bring himself to wash away the ink, too spooked by the thought of standing in that spot for even a few seconds, and so instead he turns himself towards the hallway, grabbing his car keys and his wallet and opens the door. He’s almost out when he feels his phone buzz in his pocket and quickly pulls it out, keeping it locked so that he doesn’t have to see the notification, before throwing it carelessly towards the shoe rack. It lands with a soft  _ thud _ and with that, Harry closes the door. He needs to get away from here, and so that’s exactly what he’s going to do. 

 

~~~~

Louis opens his eyes. He’s still alive, which is unfortunate, but at least the room is dark and the house is silent. He closes them again and lets sleep draw him back in. That’s enough activity for today, he thinks, mind thick with the fuzziness of sleep, that’s more than enough activity for today. 

 

~~~~

 

Harry’s heart is pounding in his chest and his lungs are burning almost as much as his calves. He should have bought his inhaler out with him, but he wasn’t really thinking, doesn’t even know if he’s bought one with him at all. He just tries to focus his attention on the sound of his feet hitting the ground beneath him, a steady rhythmic  _ thud thud thud  _ and tries to match his breathing to his pace. He’s been running for long enough that he knows how to do this almost without thinking most days, but today his mind is hazy and it doesn’t come quite as naturally. The consciousness of it should help, he thinks, because at least it gives him something to focus on that isn’t just the loop of Louis asking for his ring that’s been going round and round his head for the past two days. No, this is better. Having a focal point, having something to fix himself on to. This should help. 

 

He’d driven himself straight to his Cheshire home after deciding that he couldn’t spend another minute in his Stoke Newington flat, and hadn’t spoken to anyone since he arrived. No one knows where he is, his phone laying abandoned in his hallway, and his iPad locked firmly in the boot of his car. He’s completely off grid. He hasn’t even told his mum that he was back up north, which he does feel a little uncomfortable about but he really needs to be alone right now. He can’t cope with sympathy, can’t cope with needing to explain or talk anyone through it. He just needs it to be him. 

 

He pushes on through the familiar paths that weave across the fields surrounding his house. He can never remember quite how much of the land he actually owns, given that one of the first things he did when he moved in was make friends with the local farmers and let them know they were welcome to use whatever they wanted. His initial reasoning had been that he was rarely there and hated to see the land go to waste, but he also secretly loves the idea that maybe one day he’ll be able to learn how to tend to a little farm of his own, and sharing his land with them makes him feel a little closer to that. It also means that when he has days like today where he just needs to escape and run in places where no one will find him, he can do so without worrying that he’ll end up accidentally trespassing, having been given free range over the farmer’s fields as thanks. It works. 

 

Reluctantly, he turns himself back in the direction of the house, his chest starting to ache in a way that’s more painful than is probably healthy, and he slows his pace to a languid jog. He lets himself take in a deep breath, savouring the countryside air. It’s one of the things that will always feel like home to him and memories of childhood dreams come flooding back to him. If they’re broken up by reminders of the plans he and Louis had to escape away to the countryside for a year or two after this next tour finishes, he pretends not to notice. 

 

Eventually, he rounds a corner and sees the wooden gate that opens into the side of the driveway ahead of him. As he comes a little closer, he notices a slight slash of red behind his Range Rover and does a double take, his breath batching uncomfortably in his aching lungs. He absolutely did not bring two cars with him, given that he is only  _ one person,  _ so why the fuck is there someone else in his driveway. He takes a moment to consider running back off in the other direction, waiting out in the woods until he hears the firm crunch of tyres on gravel, but his attention is caught by a loud, wracking sob. 

 

He runs, bolting straight towards the door, heart unfairly full of hope that Louis has come to find him, come to sort things out and make it all ok.

 

Of course though, it isn’t him. Harry feels a pang of guilt in his chest at the disappointment he feels to see Niall sat on his front steps, which is pretty quickly interrupted by a flash of shock as his friend barrels towards him and lands a fist firmly into his jaw. 

 

“You,” Niall’s voice quivers with emotion beneath his furious bellow, “are a selfish fucking cunt. I have been to every fucking place I could think of. I ended up at your mum’s house and had to make excuses about getting addresses mixed up in my fucking calendar because  _ apparently  _ she is under the illusion that you’re still fucking married. I was just tossing up between booking a flight to LA, calling the police or breaking all of your fucking doors down because again, one a-fucking-gain, I thought you were dead. Why the  _ fuck _ don’t you have your phone?”

 

Harry should have seen this coming. He should have know that Niall wouldn’t just let him disappear because no one can ever trust Harry’s ability to keep himself in one piece when everything is falling to shit. That had always been Louis’ job. He’s always been the strong one, the sorted one, the one who makes sure Harry isn’t a walking liability. And when it’s not Louis, it’s always Niall stepping in to make sure he’s not completely crumbling. The combination of being the baby of the group and being the softest one, the feminine one, meant that they’d all instantly seen how much Harry needed to have that sort of anchoring in his life, and they all gave it to him so freely that even when he really  _ doesn’t  _ need or want it, it’s there anyway. It’s just the way things are. 

 

Harry doesn’t say anything in response. He knows that’s kind of shitty of him because Niall is so clearly upset, but his jaw hurts and his lungs hurt and he really just wants to be alone right now. Instead, he moves towards the front door and unlocks it, stepping inside the hallway where he carefully slips off his running shoes. The door remains opens behind him, but he doesn’t look back. He knows Niall will come in anyway, knows that even if he locks it, he’ll wait out there all day and all night until Harry eventually caves. At least this way, Harry can pretend he has even the slightest bit of control of his own life. He heads straight for the bathroom and turns on the shower as hot as it will go. If Niall wants to talk, he can wait just a little longer because right now, Harry really does have nothing to give. Right now, all he wants is to feel scalding hot water against his skin. He steps under the stream and grits his teeth, sucking in a harsh breath as he feels his skin flush with the heat. The moment he starts to adjust, he reaches his hand towards the knob and turns it anti-clockwise, as cold as it can go. He clamps his jaw shut to keep himself silent and then swings the knob right back in the other direction. He continues like this until he’s body starts to tremble and his knees finally give out beneath him. He falls to the floor of the shower and lays there, naked and weeping beneath the shower stream until eventually, finally, there’s a soft tap at the door and Niall comes to meet him with open arms and the softest towel. He bundles him up and Harry is grateful, he is, but all he can think is how shitty it feels that it’s Niall doing this and not Lou. But those sorts of thoughts aren’t helpful right now, so instead Harry makes himself focus on the steady pace of Niall’s breathing, counting his way through each in and out until he eventually finds a moment of stillness and falls asleep, right there on the bathroom floor, damp and naked in his best friend’s arms. It’s the best sleep he’s had in days. 

 

~~~~

Louis opens his eyes again. He doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep this time and he doesn’t really care. He notices the tray that Eleanor has placed on his bedside table, a still warm mug of tea and a bowl of Cocoa Pops (milk separate so they don’t go soggy) carefully laid out on top. 

 

With creaking bones, Louis hauls himself to his feet. The smell of the cereal is truly overwhelming, the sight of the milk too much to bare. Even the tea makes his stomach turn. He carefully lifts the tray and carries it towards the en suite, where he quietly but methodically scrapes everything into the toilet bowl and flushes. He doesn’t look in the mirror whilst he’s in there and is thankful that he knows the layout well enough to not need to turn the lights on. He should probably brush his teeth or wash his face or  _ something,  _ but that feels like a lot more effort than he’s able to muster, so instead he picks up the tray, places it by the door and climbs back into bed. 

 

At least his sleep is dreamless, he thinks. It’s the only place that he can find peace right now. He just hopes it doesn’t take too long to pull him under again. 5 minutes awake with his thoughts is more than enough for today. 

 

He’s lucky though and sleep comes fast, his body exhausted despite the 3 days in bed. His last thought is that he thinks he hears Eleanor softly saying his name with a sigh, but he can’t be sure. Maybe his sleep isn’t so dreamless after all. Maybe his brain is just choosing not to let him remember in the brief moments when he wakes up. It doesn’t matter either way. All that Louis cares about is that sleep means he doesn’t have to deal with anyone else and for now, that’s all he needs. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please all go and hydrate yourselves and give someone a hug. Our poor boys. 
> 
> Tw explanations (includes mild spoilers for future chapters):  
> At the end of the second Harry section, he does some low level self harm using the shower temperature. There is no blood and no risk of actual harm but he uses the extremes of temperature to cause himself pain that results in distress. 
> 
> In the final Louis section, he hides that he hasn’t eaten. This is going to be a continuing theme for Louis - I don’t see him as being a classically anorexic character (eg his aim is not related to his body shape or size) this will fall more into a “disordered eating” mentality which is mainly linked to his expression of depression throughout this and to some extent a form of control. This will be revisited throughout the next few chapters. A lot of this will be pulling on my own personal experience of having an eating disorder but this won’t become an eating disorder focused fic if that makes sense. Happy to answer any questions on this if that would be helpful


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay -I’m aiming for weekly updates but it might go a bit wonky sometimes because my life is generally chaos and I suck at being organised with writing. 
> 
> This is, unsurprisingly, just a shedload of pain. Why break the habit of a lifetime hey (well, 8 chapters which FEELS like a lifetime).
> 
> I’ve really enjoyed all the comments and kudos that I’ve had so far. Please do feel free to leave more because it very definitely encourages me to keep going. 
> 
> ENJOY! 
> 
> TW for disordered eating and one use of homophobic language. 
> 
> (As always this is fiction not true etc etc etc)

Harry pulls at a stray thread on the waistband of his trousers, slowly letting it unravel between his fingertips. He’s nervous and uncomfortable and wishes he could be back out in the countryside, but Niall had bundled him into the back of his car earlier that morning, locking him in and essentially kidnapping him before bombing it down the motorway back to London. He’d apparently managed to work out how to activate the child locks on the back doors of his little red Mini so Harry hadn’t been able to escape when they hit the service station for a McDonalds breakfast. It was early enough that Niall had been able to pull a cap down and sneak in and out without being recognised, whilst Harry had slumped down in his seat praying that no-one knocked on the window for a quick selfie. Fans have an uncanny knack for catching him when he looks like shit and he really wasn’t in the mood for trying to politely decline. 

 

When Niall has returned to the car with a couple of Egg McMuffins clutched to his chest and a smear of hash brown grease bleeding through the back pocket of his shorts, Harry had attempted to argue that he’d really like a piss. Niall had responded by  throwing an empty water bottle at him and fixing him with brief yet stern glance through the rear view mirror. 

 

“When you’re not a fucking flight risk, you can piss on your own. Until then…” He’d gestured behind him to the bottle and then locked his eyes back ahead as he started to manoeuvre out of the car park. 

 

Harry had pissed in the bottle, using an old gym towel he’d found on the floor to cover himself. Thankfully Niall was a bit of a slob and his car was always full of random shit. Well, either that or he’d come prepared which yeah, ok...likely. 

 

Anyway, that was earlier and now Harry is sat in a stuffy boardroom with Niall to one side and his lawyer to the other. In front of him are some of the same management guys from the last time he’d been here, when Louis had taken his ring back and honestly, Harry really can’t start thinking about that now. He takes a big sniff and ruffles his hair, shifting his focus back into the room. He’s pulled so much on the stray thread that there’s a little hole on the seam of his Gucci trousers. Probably means he’ll have to retire them now, he thinks glumly. At least the fans will be happy. They’ve been moaning about them for years, calling them his “grandad pants” - he doesn’t care though, they’re comfy and comforting and they let his balls breathe. Years of tucking when he wore skinny jeans had started to be a quite literal pain in the balls, so he was sort of attached to the oversized beige woolen monstrosities. A bit of cock and ball torture was fine in the bedroom; less so on a busy street in LA when he needed to very decidedly  _ not  _ jizz in his pants. 

 

Harry is vaguely aware of someone calling his name and suddenly his vision is interrupted by the snap of Niall’s fingers in front of his face. 

 

“Oi, dickhead, you need to focus or you’re gonna end up with these pricks signing your life away.” Niall has never been one to mince his words with management. 

 

It’s funny really because Louis has always been the one with the reputation for ripping management a new pair, but Niall can be just as firm when he needs to be and makes no effort to hide his disdain towards them. Management barely even flinch; after 10 years or so of dealing with the boys, they were all more than used to the complete lack of fear and respect for them that had developed amongst the band. 

 

Harry glances up, chewing his lip as he continues rolling the thread on his trousers between his fingertips. The hole grows a little bigger. 

 

“Can you just like..just explain it again please?” He tries to keep his breathing even as he listens to the lawyer in front of him going over the details of his coming out one more time.

 

Just a little over a month ago, he’d really wanted this. This was part of the reason everything had gone to shit in the first place - Harry had wanted to come out for years and Louis had never quite been able to get to that place with him, so he’d held back and held back until eventually he snapped and decided to just do it without him. The original plan had just been to do a quick stunt date, grab a couple of pre planned pap pictures and use that to throw the scent off his and Louis’ relationship whilst still allowing him to come out properly. 

 

It wasn’t even like Harry wasn’t  _ out _ \- for the most part, his fans had pieced things together over the years. He left enough clues, had enough moments when he was reckless and obvious...he’d even had a song about loving cock for fucks sake. And when he was younger, he was happy to cart out the whole “I don’t want to label myself” line because he’d foolishly, naively, thought that would mean that people would understand that Harry Styles is in fact  _ not _ straight. But sadly, that was never the case and he continued to be linked to every woman he ever dared to spend a moment of time with, continued to have a fairly sizeable chunk of his fans banging the drum to defend his straightness, continued to have to avoid the things that might be seen as “too gay” and in all honesty, he’s tired of it. Or at least, he had been. 

 

But now...well, now things are different. He doesn’t have the comfort and safety of coming home to Lou. He doesn’t have anyone fighting his corner, doesn’t have anyone who properly gets it - sure, Niall would put his life on the line to protect Harry if needs be and he clearly has no intentions of letting him out of his sights any time soon (Harry had been grimly reminded of this jusy before the meeting when he’d had to force Niall to sing to him whilst he took a shit because he couldn’t deal with the embarrassment of doing it in a silent room and Niall still point blank refused to leave his side). And, more importantly, using the pictures that broke apart his marriage as the way that he outs himself just is not going to happen. His stomach churns at the thought. 

 

“I don’t want to do it.” He interrupts the generic man from management mid sentence and it takes him a moment to catch up, still intoning his way through the specifics of the plan. 

 

Everyone turns to look at Harry but he keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the hole in his trousers, which he really should stop fiddling with but eh, they’re basically ruined so no point in trying to save them now. He clears his throat and then repeats himself more firmly, sure and certain in his words. 

 

“Haz, do you ummm...do you want a minute? I can get you some water or we can go for a walk or something?” Niall squeezes Harry’s forearm and casts searching eyes towards his face as he speaks, but Harry doesn’t return his glance. 

 

“No Niall. I know what I’m saying. I’m not doing it, so meeting’s over I guess. Everyone can go home.” 

 

Nobody moves. 

 

One of the older men from management who has been mostly silent so far lets out a little cough, causing all eyes in the room to turn towards him. He’s a man who exudes the colour grey - everything from his hair to his eyes to his skin to his probably expensive but still pretty ill fitting suit. A grey smudge of a man with far too much power for someone so bland. 

 

“Mr Styles, I would like to remind you that this plan is already well on the way to being in motion. Money has been spent in making sure it works and there’s a good chance that if we don’t follow through there will be consequences.”

 

“Are you threatening him mate because that’s pretty fucked up.” Niall clenches his fists and honestly, it wouldn’t be the first time Harry’s had to hold him back from throwing a punch mid meeting to defend his honour but Harry really doesn’t have the energy to stop him today. He just sighs instead as he waits for it to unfold. 

 

“Erm, ahem, Mr Horan of course not, I’m referring to the small issue of Mr Styles’ blackmailer, who we had been hoping to silence with this release since it would remove the element of scandal.” His voice is as bland and grey as the rest of him, but the reminder of the blackmailer still sends chills down Harry’s spine. 

 

Fuck. 

 

Harry takes a moment to breathe, thread still working in his fingertips, hole still growing ever bigger. He might need to borrow a jumper from Niall to wrap around his waist or something because the last thing he needs is a paparazzi dick pic shocker. There’s already one of those on the horizon as it is, he thinks glumly. 

 

The thing is, Harry had never envisioned his coming out being this way. Even the original plan, the stunt date pictures, it wasn’t the way Harry wanted to do things. No, Harry had wanted to do a full joint coming out with Louis and there had been moments when it had looked like it might happen. Maybe if Zayn hadn’t left, if the pressure of 4 years of tours and albums and promos and no fucking sleep hadn’t hit them both so hard, maybe if Jay was still here. Harry mentally recoils, scalding himself. It’s not fair to bring Jay into things, not fair to be cross with Louis for how he was in that time. It hit them both hard and yeah...he wasn’t exactly a shining light ready to come out then either. 

 

It had been one of their biggest points of disagreement over the years - Harry wanted the exclusive spread in some hipster magazine (i-D had been his firm favourite after the whole Timothée Chalamet interview) and Louis just...hadn’t. It wasn’t that Louis was ashamed (although most people thought it was), it was just that he’d never quite felt ready for it. That he’d never understood why it was worth other people knowing. And ok, some of it was also the years of having management tell him that if he came out everything he’d worked for would fall apart, and even if Louis insisted that wasn’t part of it, Harry knew better. He’d seen how Louis changed over the years; from the boisterous proud little twink he’d been at the start to the laddy chav persona that management shaped him to the soft and humble, quiet gentleman he’d settled into being after X Factor. That was the Louis Harry knew and loved the most - his gentle, kind, loving husband. Always so protective and so fucking intelligent. God, Harry could write sonnets about how intelligent Louis is (Harry  _ had _ written sonnets about how intelligence Louis was). Louis had really settled into himself over the years but it was still that sticking point. Coming out just...it was never on the cards for him. And Harry had become more and more tired of hiding it. The last time they’d discussed it before Harry had agreed on the plan he’d just been presented with, Louis had ended up throwing one of their Brit Awards into the garden and Harry had shouted so loudly that he’d lost his voice for the best part of a week. 

 

It wasn’t one of their proudest moments. 

 

Harry is rarely a diva. He tends to genuinely try to make the lives of everyone in his team easier and hates the whole “you work for me” vibe that so many of the celebrities he’s met over the years have towards their teams. And yet, right now he just can’t bring himself to be the one taking charge of this, he can’t find it inside himself to formulate the plan that makes this all better. Instead, he stands up abruptly and then pushes his chair back underneath the table. 

 

“Not my problem is it. That’s what I pay you for, so you can make it go away. I’m not coming out and you’re not going to let anyone else out me. I don’t really care how you do it but just,” his breath catches and he blinks away the tears threatening to press behind his eyes, “nothing that hurts Louis. I don’t care about me, but you protect him, do you understand?”

 

And with that, he turns to leave the room, not giving the stunned men in front of him time to respond. He vaguely registers the sound of his lawyer trying to call after him but he doesn’t turn back, just focuses on stalking his way towards the lifts. Niall isn’t far behind and no doubt he’ll have something to say, but he doesn’t want to talk right now. Instead, he pulls out his headphones and shoves them in as he presses the down button with increasing impatience.

 

If it were another day, perhaps Niall might have pulled his headphones out and made him talk, but right now, thankfully, he settles by Harry’s side, still slightly breathless from chasing to catch up with him, and rubs a gentle thumb across Harry’s wrist as he puts his own headphones in. The two of them wait silently, both watching until the little red arrow of the down button goes out and they step forward in sync. 

 

Harry isn’t sure if it’s the lift that makes his stomach drop or something else but it doesn’t really matter anyway. Not my problem, he repeats to himself like a mantra. Not. My. Problem. 

 

~~~~

 

Louis feels sick. Well, not sick so much as nauseous. His head feels all fuzzy and little white spots tingle behind his eyes whenever he breathes in. His limbs ache like they used to after a long run of shows, his stomach is cramping pretty violently and his mouth feels dry and claggy. He feels like shit. 

 

He slowly blinks his eyes open and is met with Eleanor’s face looming above him, concern written all across her features. She gives him a little half smile as he blearily looks at her and rubs softly at his cheek. It hurts, which it shouldn’t and if Louis didn’t know better, he’d think he was getting sick. But yeah...he’s not getting sick. Well, he is in some ways, but not like, in a non self inflicted, actually contagious way. 

 

“Lou, love,” Eleanor’s voice is soft and gentle and Louis feels gratitude wash over him that he’s kept her around all these years. For all the shit she’s been through with him, he really doesn’t know why she’s still here, but she is and she cares and that feels important right now, “How about we try getting out of bed today? And maybe y’know...showering.”

 

Louis grimaces and pushes his face back into the pillow, letting out a soft moan. 

 

“Louis,” her voice is a little sterner than before, “I’m not offering this up as an option. You’re getting out of bed and you’re showering. Because babe, it’s been like nearly a week now. And I love you but you smell fucking ripe.”

 

Huh. A week.

 

Louis has definitely lost track of days and well, that would explain why he feels quite so terrible. A week in bed. A week of sleeping as much as he can and smoking enough weed to numb the moments when he can’t. A week of flushing his meals down the toilet and living off sweet sugary tea alone. Louis swallows, trying to will some saliva back into his parched mouth. The taste is vile. 

 

Slowly, carefully, he moves himself to sit upright but even that’s a little too much and he sways violently to the right, half collapsing back down towards the bed. Eleanor’s brow knits together in concern as she gently tugs him upright. 

 

“Is there anything you want to tell me Lou?” Her voice is gentle, searching, “Have you...Louis have you been eating?”

 

Louis bites his lip and sucks in a harsh breath. Fucking Eleanor having been around for fucking ever. The warmth he felt towards her just moments before leaves him, instantly replaced by the flooding shame of being found out. 

 

“I may have skipped a couple of meals here and there but I’m fine. Just stressed and don’t have an appetite and you’re a shit cook.” 

 

Urgh. Louis hates that he’s a dick when he’s feeling like this, hates that he lashes out at whoever is trying their best to support him and look after him and love him. It’s one of the qualities he’s always loathed about himself and obviously, it always comes to the surface at the worst possible times. 

 

“And by a couple you mean all of them, yes?”

 

Fucking Eleanor. 

 

“Most,” he mumbles and pulls his the sleeves of his pyjama top down further over his hands. Not quite sweater paws, but close enough to give him the comfort that he needs right now. The top’s a bit long in him anyway because well...it might technically belong to his husband instead of him, but he definitely wasn’t thinking of that when he pulled it out of the drawer however many days ago it was. 

 

Eleanor sighs and rubs her hand through his hair as she pulls him in for a tight hug. He lets himself be led into her arms and rests for a moment as she rocks him back and forth. 

 

“You can’t do this to yourself Lou. You can’t destroy yourself because of him. It’s not what he’d want, you know that,” Louis starts to interrupt her but Eleanor shushes him firmly, “And I know that right now you don’t care what he wants and he’s a dickhead and you hate him but seriously Louis, come on, you guys always work things out. What’s so different about this time? It’s not like you’ve not had big blow ups before.”

 

Louis sighs and tugs at his sleeves, stretching them even further out of shape. On the one hand, Eleanor is right. He and Harry have really fought before, they’ve even had moments of breaking up before (although never for more than a couple of days and Louis has never asked for his ring back). It’s just that normally, they’re both to blame, or neither of them are to blame and it’s just work and stress and all the bullshit that comes with it. 

 

This time though...this time Harry had betrayed him, broken his trust on so many levels. It was bad enough that Harry went behind his back to agree the whole coming out plan with management, bad enough that he’d liked the guy he was stunting with enough to kiss him and see him again. But the fact that they’d had sex too, and that Harry hadn’t even properly told him and then was still going ahead with the whole original plan to come out using the pictures with him? That was what really hurt. 

 

It feels as though Louis is so inadequate on every level that Harry had just been able to fill in the void that he left without even thinking about it. Their sex life had been a little quieter than usual of late and Louis thought it was mutual, thought it was just a combination of a busy schedule and a being stuck in a bit of a rut and in all honesty, even a quiet streak for them was pretty noisy compared to other people; they fucked at least 4 times a week, it was just a bit more vanilla than usual. Less chaining Harry to the bed and beating him until he cried, more blow jobs by the kitchen sink whilst Louis was still brushing his teeth. But he supposes that the real inadequacy for Harry must lie in the fact that he still doesn’t feel ready to be out and proud, not in the same way as Harry does. Coming out together had been well and truly taken off the table for a fair chunk of time, both of them preferring to avoid the inevitable broken kitchenware that came with it, and clearly that’s the thing that makes Harry feel so over him. 

 

Louis does remember that there was a time when he was ready to come out, when he just wanted to say “fuck it” and show the world how in love he was with his boy. His heart aches whenever he sees pictures or videos of the two of them together back then, both so bold and blatant in their love for one another. They’d been building to it, with the bears and the clues and the hints and Harry being a live wire in interviews and him just playing dumb. Management had fought them every step of the way of course, always having a counter move to try to disprove any breadcrumbs they dropped, but they hadn’t cared. They’d been so caught up in their love for each other and for the first time in his life, Louis has properly understood what it felt like to be comfortable with who he was, to ignore all the voices that told him that a little working class lad from Donny wouldn’t never be loved if he was a poofter. But then it all started to fall apart and he’d panicked and pulled back and dragged Harry with him. They were both so caught up in stress and grief that they’d never really had time to even discuss it, never really had a chance to check in and make a new plan and forge a path together. Louis just clammed up every time Harry mentioned it and then eventually, when he was tired of clamming up and Harry was bored of trying to unravel his stitches, he’d started to explode more and more loudly every time it was raised. 

 

So yeah, he can see why Harry might find him inadequate. He can see why Harry would want someone else. He can see why he was never going to be enough, and why it was never going to work. Closing himself off, letting himself just fade away into dust...that’s the best chance he has at protecting himself right now. He doesn’t need to watch as Harry gets to shine and be the proud queer icon he’s always been destined to be. He doesn’t need to do anything. 

 

Eleanor is still looking at him, waiting for a reply. 

 

“It just is, Eleanor. It just fucking is.” 

 

She squeezes him a little tighter and Louis closes his eyes as he sinks into her embrace. They stay like that for a long stretch of time just hugging and breathing and swaying softly until Louis’ stomach lets out an almighty growl, sending a deep cramp of pain from his gut to his spine. Eleanor pulls back a little, turning Louis’ face to look at her. 

 

“First, you’re going to shower and brush your teeth because seriously, not joking, you smell like literal shit. Then, you’re going to come downstairs and I’m going to get Oli to change your bedsheets whilst you eat something. I don’t give a flying fuck what it is -I’ll order McDonald’s breakfast, I’ll make you a fucking soufflé if you really want. But you’re eating something Louis and you’re leaving this room.”

 

Louis wants to argue, he wants to tell her to fuck off and let him deal with this in his own way, but he knows that will only make things worse in the long run. Instead, he huffs a sigh of agreement and attempts to stand up, which proves more challenging than he expected. Eleanor holds him upright and slowly rises up to stand with him, wrapping an arm around his waist. 

 

“You good to walk or do I need to carry you?” Her voice is laced with sarcasm but he knows that she’s asking at least half out of concern. 

 

“Fuck off Eleanor.” 

 

Louis stumbles at the first step, and then the second. 

 

Eleanor carries him the rest of the way. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God I feel so cruel for putting them through this and yet, there’s still so much more pain to come. Poor Niall having to listen to Harry poop but also, god bless Niall for listening to Harry poop. He’s a good soul and we do not deserve him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look,I warn you every chapter but please, be hydrated. 
> 
> TW for Louis' disordered eating.

It’s the first day of rehearsals and Louis really wishes he could just stay in bed. He’s actually managed to cut down the amount of time he’s been spending in his room now that Eleanor has taken it upon herself to physically drag him to the shower if he’s not up and out before 10am, but still, just for today he’d like to stay put. 

 

No such luck, obviously. 

 

Instead, he’s here, in a nameless warehouse somewhere in West London, with a mug of rapidly cooling Yorkshire Tea clutched between his hands and a choreographer desperately trying to convey the importance of synchronised movement. Really, you’d think that they’d be beyond this sort of shit by now but apparently the fan videos for mirroring remain some of the most popular out there and some bright spark in the creative department thought it would be lucrative to pull on that a little. It must have been agreed in one of the meetings that Louis has missed because he’s pretty certain there’s no chance he’d have agreed to this. He prides himself on knowing good creative, and this is very much  _ not it _ . He could argue, and he’d probably win, but also, that would involve opening his eyes and yeah, not going to happen. Not whilst Harry is sat in the corner giving him the murder stare. Not going to happen at all. 

 

“Stop it.” Louis doesn’t open his eyes. 

 

“Stop what?”

 

“Staring at me. I can feel it. Go talk to Niall or something” Louis tries to keep his breathing calm and steady - this is already more interaction with Harry than he’d planned on having and he needs to try and keep himself together. 

 

“You look skinny Lou. Worried about you.” Louis thinks he hears the scrape of Harry’s chair shifting closer to him across the concrete floor and he squeezes his eyes a little more tightly shut. He will not open them to check, he absolutely will not. 

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“Lou, are you eating? Do you want me to bring you something? I could make that chicke-“

 

“I’m. Fine.” Louis punctuates the words with sharp exhales and silently prays that Harry will take the hint and leave him alone. 

 

“Louis, I can see your fucking collarbones through your jumper and you know the big baggy clothes trick stopped working on me years ago.”

 

The end of the sentence is lost on Louis, who pushes himself away from his chair, reluctantly opening his eyes in the process, and stalks off towards the door for a smoke. 

 

He doesn’t need anyone drawing attention to how little he has his shit together, especially not Harry. He hates how quickly his body loses weight, how hard it is to hide when he’s not coping. The past few days have been better too, with Eleanor not letting him out of her sight at mealtimes, and it’s not even like he wants to be thin. He doesn’t have an eating disorder, or at least not a classic one. He’s not starving himself on purpose or anything like that, he just can’t cope with anything when he feels like this and food is so far down his list of priorities it hurts. 

 

Of course, Harry knows this. Harry has seen the times this has happened before, has been the one to slowly coax him back to eating when he’s lost the ability to feed himself. Harry has been the one to carry him into the shower and kiss his sleep crusted eyelashes under the spray when Louis hasn’t got out of bed for days. He’s been the one of comb his hair when the thought of lifting the brush has made Louis weep with exhaustion, been the one to pick out his clothes when stress has made it too hard to choose. But that doesn’t give him the fucking right to start acting concerned again now. If he cared that much, he wouldn’t have done it in the first place Louis thinks to himself as he draws deeply on his cigarette. He leans back against the wall and closes his eyes as he exhales.

 

Harry, it seems, cannot take a hint. Some things never change. 

 

“I wouldn’t need to come round to cook y’know. I could do it at mine and then have someone drive it over to you. Like, I know Eleanor isn’t the best cook and you need to be healthy before tour because it’ll only get worse. You’ve got to start eating again Louis please, you can’t do this to yourself, not again.”

 

Louis is trying his best to tune into the sound of anything other than Harry’s voice and focuses his attention on patting every possible place he might have a pair of headphones stashed. Unfortunately, he doesn’t even find a single AirPod. Bollocks. 

 

“Harry, please shut up and leave me alone.” Louis is trying his utmost to be nice and civil. He doesn’t want to cause a scene - the other boys have already been pulled into enough of his and Harry’s mess, and that doesn’t even take into account the absolute clusterfuck that is their tour setlist. 

 

A couple of months back when they’d first been planning the tour, it had seemed like a cute idea to use some of the solo tracks Harry and Louis had written about each other for the whole band. Tight four part harmonies on Sweet Creature and Louis pulling the lead for Always You had worked so perfectly in those early rehearsals, and yet now every lyric feels like a knife in the heart and both Niall and Liam look desperately uncomfortable every time they work on blocking them out, both constantly watching for things to fall apart. So yeah, Louis is going to keep trying his best to be polite and get through the day without shouting or making anyone cry. Whether or not that will happen is quite another story. But it’s the thought that counts right? That said, Harry is really, really testing his resolve. 

 

“Are you at least talking to someone about it? I can email over my therapist’s details again. You’ve met her before right? You said she reminded you a bit of Hermione Granger but like I think you’d really get on-“

 

“Hi guys! Good to see you talking again, that’ll be good for tour. Just thought I’d let you know we’re stopping for lunch now.” Thank fuck for Liam and his complete inability to read a room. 

 

“Thank you Liam,” Louis tries to make his voice sound something vaguely approaching pleasant. He thinks he sounds a bit like a cat with its tail shut in a door. “I’m gonna head out to Maccy Ds I reckon - can’t be doing with all this kale and sushi bollocks. Want owt?” He can feel Harry stirring next to him so he tags on “Gonna go on me own. Need to make a few calls so might as well do it on the way.”

 

Harry lets out a disgruntled sigh and Louis lets himself risk a quick glance over in his direction. His eyebrows are knit together so deeply and his frown is so pronounced that he almost looks caveman like. Louis knows this look well, knows that if they were still together there is absolutely no chance he’d be making it out the door alone, knows that he’d spend the next hour being slowly ground down by Harry until he finally acquiesced and agreed to therapy or Harry making a meal plan or whatever else Harry has planned. But they’re not together, so Louis can do what he wants, and right now that’s being literally anywhere but here. 

 

He stubs out the end of his cigarette and pings it to the floor - bad habit really, especially when he knows there’s a bin somewhere nearby but eh, Louis is the king of bad habits.

 

“See you later lads.” he gives a little half wave behind him but keeps his gaze fixed firmly in front as he paces towards his car. 

 

Once he’s inside, he turns the heating up full blast and lets out the shiver that he’s been holding in. Lois always runs colder than most people, which is really fucking embarrassing because y’know...Northerner. But at the moment, he’s in a permanent state of feeling half frozen and he  _ knows  _ it’s because he’s not eating enough, but also….that doesn’t exactly pull up some huge reserve of hidden effort that’s suddenly going to make him able to eat again. Layers and heaters and praying that at some point everything will miraculously fall back into place. That’s the plan. 

 

He pulls away from the car park and takes a right turn, crossing his fingers that neither Liam or Harry are watching him (and if they are that neither of them know that McDonald’s is to the left of the warehouse). Once he’s on the road, he turns the radio on, keeping the volume down low enough that it’s really just white noise. The tears start flowing before he’s even hit the first set of traffic lights and Louis has never been more grateful that he let Harry talk him into tinted windows (even if they did make him feel like a bit of a tit most of the time). He lets them fall freely, reaching up to wipe with the sleeve of his jumper when his vision starts to get a little too blurry to feel safe on the road. He doesn’t really have a plan for where to go, but it doesn’t matter. If he spends the next hour just driving and crying and driving and crying, it will still be better than being back at the warehouse with Harry staring into his soul and attempting to force feed him salad. 

 

He’s lost in this thought when his brain decides to half tune in to the radio. Even turned down low, the huge belt of Harry’s voice will carry, and Louis has always tuned into it like a homing beacon. “ _ Stop your crying baby it’ll be alright” _

 

“Fuck off Harry” Louis mutters to himself and he turns the radio off, letting the sound of his sobbing merge with the hum of the engine as he carries on along the road, letting himself just drive and drive and drive and hoping that somewhere along the way it’ll ease the pain. 

 

~~~~

 

Rehearsals have been harder than Harry had expected; he’d known that Louis was going to be mad at him still and that they probably wouldn’t speak all that much, but seeing him in the flesh every single day is an indescribable form of torture, especially given how unwell Louis looks. It’s not the first time Harry has seen him in this sort of state, but it’s the first time he’s been powerless to do anything about it. Normally it wouldn’t have had the chance to get so bad - there’s only been a couple of times Harry can remember seeing Louis so thin and frail looking, and even they were only ever times when Harry wasn’t there to pick up the pieces because of work (or because of that one time when Louis ran away for two weeks to hide in the middle of fuck knows where after his mum died and Harry had gone out of his mind trying to find him). Even then though, Louis had always let him in, let him cook and fuss and care. It’s what he’s good at - all that domestic stuff no one else seems to enjoy lights Harry up. Give him a big pile of dirty laundry, a mission to cook a nutritionally balanced meal and a bed to change and he’s the happiest soul in the world, especially if it’s all for Lou. 

 

But no, not this time. This time Harry has to watch every day from a distance, fighting back the urge to follow Louis when he leaves the rehearsal space at lunch time (he always claims McDonalds but Harry knows better, knows that he’s just driving off to fuck knows where to put distance between, to hide how poorly he’s coping too), resisting the desire to load an extra portion of food onto his plate (Louis always found it easier to start eating again if the food came from Harry’s plate instead of his own. He said it took the pressure of finishing it all away.). He desperately wants to intervene, to talk, to do something to help but he can’t, because Louis isn’t his anymore and they’re not a team. Legally, they’re still married but emotionally? They are completely apart. 

 

Harry is alone, more alone than he’s been for a very long time. And when he’s alone, Harry tends to make stupid choices, which is why he’s currently sat in some hideously overpriced bar in East London, four whisky sours in, and he’s mildly aware of the fact that the room is starting to spin. He knows he should stop before he has another repeat of the last time he went out drinking and he knows that he probably already looks a complete mess. He also knows that he’s probably having his photo taken by all and sundry because drunk popstar is always a winner but fuck it, let them. It’s not like he needs to be squeaky clean any more and there’s far, far worse photos that could come out anyway given the whole “the guy you had an affair with set you up to blackmail you” situation. He ignores it all and signals to the bartender to pour him another whilst he takes a moment to check his phone. 

 

As always, there’s a string of notifications to flick through and his heart drops when he sees that none of them are from Louis. It’s been a good few weeks now, but Harry still hasn’t got used to the huge gaping hole that’s been left by Louis’ absence, especially not when it comes to checking his phone. 

 

Once management had put the breaks on their Twitter interactions all those years ago, they’d become avid texters. It was silly at first because they’d be literally sat across the bus from each other but would still send stupid messages to make each other laugh or sweet song lyrics to make each other smile or well...if the odd dick pic made its way across a crowded room, no one else needed to know. After, when either of them toured solo, they’d usually text non stop with little snippets and updates of their lives and call each other at least once a day. Well, Harry would call Louis at least once a day and Louis would occasionally remember that his phone did in fact still have the call function and he could use it. It was never that he didn’t want to speak; it was always that he’d be too busy flying around the place and spinning a million different plates and would just forget. But that was always ok. Domesticity and routine were what Harry lived for in their relationship, what he always brought to the table, and being the only one who remembered to make those calls never bothered him. Where Louis brought endless comfort and affection and reassurance, cuddles and squeezes and the best fucking shoulder rubs known to man, Harry brought order and calm and peace, routine and gentleness and a sense of home. Louis gave their relationship its spark and energy, Harry gave it a depth and security like no other; they were the sun and moon to one another. But now Harry is living without his light and Louis is living without his anchor and everything is messy and hideous and god, Harry’s chest hurts, it aches, day in, day out. Hasn’t let up since the moment Louis kicked him out, probably won’t let up until the day he dies, he thinks glumly. 

 

He’s pulled from his thoughts by a large hand dragging his drink away from him

 

“Heeeeeeeeey” he turns to look at the man the hand is attached to, expecting it to be some stranger wanting a selfie or a kiss or fuck knows what. “Oh.”

 

“Evening Sue, you look a right fucking state.”

 

“Nice to see you too Nick.” Harry huffs sulkily and attempts to unwind Nick’s grasp on his drink but it’s to no avail - either he’s drunker than he thought or Nick has suddenly become freakishly strong. Probably the latter, he thinks, because he feels  _ fine.  _

 

“What you up to, popstar? Sitting here and getting wankered, so you can make a tit of yourself and then hope that dear old Nick will get the call to come rescue you again?” Nick slides the drink back towards the bartender and shakes his head whilst he points his thumb at Harry. If he thinks Harry doesn’t notice, he’s wrong. 

 

“Why are you even here Nick?” Harry glares at him. 

 

He’s is grateful for his friends, he really is, but sometimes he wishes they would all just leave him to self destruct in peace. It’s one of the things that he hates most about being the baby of the group - they’ve all had it drilled into them from the start (by Louis mainly) to make sure that he’s ok, that his every need is met, that there’s always  _ someone  _ watching out for him. It’s one of the reasons he’d pulled together the whole coming out plan on his own; he wanted to give himself a little bit of freedom, to show them all that he was capable of making his own decisions and looking after himself. Which..well, it backfired horrendously but still, at least he tried. 

 

“On a date weren’t I? But he was a boring fucker and then I saw a certain Mr Harold Edward Styles sat at the bar. Been watching you for good 30 minutes y’know. You looked right at me, didn’t even fucking notice. Rude bastard, how could you miss this gorgeous mug?” Nick frames his cheeks with his hands and bats his eyelashes dramatically. 

 

“You’re really creepy sometimes Nick, you know that right? Why didn’t you just come say hello sooner?” Harry really isn’t in the mood to deal with Nick. He just wants to be left alone so he can fuck his night up and hopefully have something different to regret in the morning. 

 

Nick lets out a sigh, his face falling into something more serious as he squeezes Harry’s elbow “Wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt love. I know it gets to you having everyone fuss, so thought I’d hang back. But then there were 4 whisky sours in under an hour and you started making eyes at that guy in the corner (Harry tries to interject, to mark his innocence, but Nick places a finger over his lips to silence him and carries on) and thennn, I saw you looking at your phone all maudlin like. Which all adds up to an almighty potential for fucking up, so thought I’d come be your knight in shining armour  _ again.” _

 

Harry let’s put a little huff of exasperation. He knows that he’s being a brat, he does, but there’s a part of him (almost definitely the part that’s 4 whisky sours under) that wants to scream and shout and tell Nick to fuck off and leave him alone. There’s also a part of him that wants to fall into Nick’s arms, bury his face just below his collarbones and sob. It turns out the latter part wins and in a move that’s as much a shock to Harry as it is to Nick, he crumples forward and lets the tears start to flow. 

 

Nick manages to regain his composure pretty quickly and cradles an arm around Harry’s broad shoulders, bringing his hand up to softly untangle his messy curls. With his free hand, he signals the bartender’s attention again and waves his credit card mouthing “both tabs please”. Harry will probably be cross with him in the morning, because he hates letting anyone paying for anything, but they’ll cross that bridge when they come to it. Thankfully for now, he’s too drunk and too blurry with tears to even notice what’s going on. 

 

After a bit of a struggle to get Harry up and walking, the pair make it outside and Nick hails a cab. They clamber in, and Harry immediately snuggles his way half into Nick’s lap, giving Nick a flashback to the last time he’d hauled a semi lucid Harry Styles home to his place. It’s becoming more of a pattern that Nick feels comfortable with and he resolves to find a way to actually properly help. 

 

Once upon a time, Nick had vaguely entertained the idea that he and Harry might date, or at least have a few cheeky fucks here and there, but it soon became apparent that his role in Harry’s life was to be part of the network of glue that holds him together, to be one of the many friends who make sure that Harry doesn’t completely fall apart. It’s funny because Harry is actually one of the strongest people Nick knows, has always been one of the strongest people he knows. To have gone through what he did, at such a young age, and to come out so grounded and balanced and  _ normal _ was fucking miraculous and testament to Harry’s strength. But there’s also a certain fragile vulnerability about him that shows itself in his darkest moments, and those are the times when he needs people like Nick to hold him together. 

 

Nick and Louis have had their fair share of run ins over the years (he’d once called Louis a “possessive little fucker” during a particularly heated discussion, and he still stands by it), but the one thing Nick had consistently given him credit for was his ability to always be able to anticipate Harry’s needs before Harry himself could. He’d lost count of the times he’d had a briefing message from Louis letting him know that Harry was about to fall apart, only to receive its mirror from Harry a day or two later. He never told Harry that Louis briefed him like that, didn’t think it was his place, but he’d always been grateful for the heads up. It’s weird now to see Harry falling apart without Louis there to catch him, to rally the troops and make it all ok again. They’d been good for each other, he thinks, really fucking good. They’d been that one couple he always thought were going to make it work, would always manage the full happily forever after romance. Apparently not. 

 

Nick sighs and places a chaste kiss on the crown of Harry’s head. His hair is a little greasy, a classic sign that he’s running himself into the ground, and Nick pulls a face before he ducks back in for another swift peck as Harry nuzzles into him. Drunk Harry is always an affectionate Harry and he craves physical intimacy from anyone who’ll give it to him, hence the need to make sure that he comes home with Nick who will keep things firmly platonic instead of whatever random man Harry ends up in the lap of. Even Louis had approved of his ability to provide Harry with all the physical intimacy he needed with no zero concern about what it would lead to (eventually at least), and Nick is glad that he can give his friend what he needs with no fear of it being misunderstood. 

 

“Nearly there love, up you get.” He hefts Harry up off his chest and straightens out his lank and dirty curls “Gonna throw you in the shower when we get in, you’re a bit ripe aren’t you?”

 

Harry lets out a dreamy sigh, clearly not listening to a word Nick is saying, lost in his own little drunken world. Eh, the shower can probably wait till morning - better that than having Harry drown himself because there’s no way Nick is helping him shower. Quick friendly kisses and squeezes are one thing; washing his sweaty bollocks is quite another.

 

The cab finally pulls up at his flat and Nick manages to get Harry up and in without too much disaster. It’s not the night he’d planned (which he’d hoped would end in a half decent fuck with his date at the very least but no, the universe had other plans for him. Majorca, he thinks to himself, one day closer to retiring in Majorca) but it could definitely be worse. He’d found Harry before things had got too bad, Harry hasn’t shouted at him yet (always a risk when he’s hitting the self destruct button) and he’ll probably get a full 8 hours sleep, which, though it pains him to admit, he really does do better with. 

 

“Be right back love, gonna go to the loo. Make yourself comfy, you know where everything is.” Harry was actually the one who had originally organised Nick’s linen closet in a fit of frustration years back when he’d stay most nights. He was also the one who’d bought the ridiculously expensive but ridiculously comfortable sofa bed in Nick’s living room, arguing that given that he was the one sleeping on it all the time, he got to choose. It’s the most expensive and most cherished piece of furniture Nick owns and he loves it dearly. 

 

When he comes out of the bathroom, he scans his eyes across towards the living room expecting to see Harry passed out and already covered in a slick sheen of his own drool, but he isn’t there. Nick calls out his name softly, half worried that he’s slipped back out into the night to finish what he’d started. He couldn’t have got far yet if he had, but Nick is pretty certain he didn’t hear the door go so gives the flat a quick once over first. 

 

He checks the kitchen and the hallway to no avail and is headed towards the office when he notices his bedroom door is ajar. He pushes it open and is met with the sight of an undressed Harry curled up into a tight ball beneath the covers, his clothes strewn in a trail across the floor. He’s already asleep, soft snuffles whisping from his nose as he breathes out and Nick notices the faint tear stains marking his cheeks. 

 

As quietly as possible, Nick changes into an old band shirt from the top of his laundry pile and his softest pair of running shorts, and tucks himself in behind Harry’s sleeping form, curling close to envelop him in his long arms. It’s not the first time they’ve shared a bed, and Nick knows the score - Harry is  _ always  _ the little spoon and always sleeps better when he’s firmly held in someone else’s embrace. He places another swift kiss just behind Harry’s ear and squeezes him just a little tighter as he whispers softly, breath hazy with the tug of sleep “Sleep tight popstar. It’ll all be ok, I promise. I promise.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Nick and god bless him for turning up and making sure Harry doesn't do anything more stupid than he's already done. Also true fact, both Louis and Harry got stuck holding their drinks for DAYS each thanks to writers block.I may never let them imbibe liquid ever again, bastards. Just drink your drinks and MOVE ON! This chapter made my heart ache, partially because I know there so many more chapters of heartache to go. I promise there's a happy ending though. I promise.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, everyone was very very cross with me for the last chapter, so let's see how delighted you're going to be with me for this one (lol, you're all going to be mad, it's fine, I expect it now). It does genuinely light up my world to get little comments and kudos so thank you for that.
> 
> TW for drug use - I'll expand in the end notes if you want to check before reading which will obviously be a spoiler as it goes into more detail :)

When Harry wakes up, it takes him a good few minutes to work out exactly where he is. Those minutes are mostly spent in a state of complete panic and disarray as he tries to piece together his night and work out if he was enough of a fuck up to end up sleeping with a complete stranger. It’s Nick’s croaky morning voice that helps him place himself 

 

“Stop fucking wriggling or I’ll push you out” Nick’s face is pressed half into the pillow and half into Harry’s shoulder, his mouth all slack with the weight of sleep. Harry pushes himself backwards, pressing more closely against Nick and tries to let his body go limp, willing himself to drift off again. 

 

“Glad it’s you Nick. Was worried I’d fucked up again.” Harry mumbles the words into the crook of Nick’s arm which he’d somehow managed to sneak beneath Harry’s neck as they slept. 

 

“Course it’s me Harold. Not gonna let anything bad happen to you am I?” Nick groggily plants a wet kiss on Harry’s neck and scooches him closer.

 

Harry pulls a face and groans in response. He wants to argue that he doesn’t need saving but really, he knows that’s not true. If it were, he wouldn’t be half naked in his best friend’s bed with an almighty hangover brewing and the faint memory of a near disastrous evening swimming around his mind. 

 

“Thanks. For y’know…”

 

“Anytime love, anytime.”

 

Harry is pretty certain that Nick isn’t even really conscious, and his suspicions are confirmed as he hears Nick’s snoring softly in his ear just moments later. Slowly, carefully, he untangles himself from Nick’s grasp and tiptoes his way across the floor, collecting his clothes as he goes. He should probably shower, he muses, but he doesn’t want to give himself time to bottle it. He has a plan in mind and he thinks that it’s best to go ahead and get it done sooner rather than later. 

 

The journey should take him about an hour, which is enough time to get the people he needs into the place that he wants them and hopefully not enough time for anyone else to come and interfere. His phone is almost out of battery but he has enough to make a couple of calls from the back of his Uber and once they’re done, he settles himself against the window hoping to catch a few more precious moments of sleep. 

 

He awakes with a start as his Uber driver softly taps on his knee. 

 

“Sorry mate, been here a few minutes and you were dead to the world.”

 

Harry offers up a smile and takes a moment to collect himself before he steps out. Definitely 5 stars, a big tip and a silent prayer that he didn’t grab a picture whilst he slept. Didn’t seem the type really and if the thinks about it, Harry isn’t sure that even he knew who he was - it’s easy to be incognito when you look like shit.

 

He takes a moment to steel himself before he steps through the door. This is the first time he’s been at management’s offices alone since everything had kicked off and he can’t work out if that means he’s about to do something terrible or something genuinely brilliant. It doesn’t really matter either way - he’s here now and management know what he wants to talk about so the plan is basically already as good as done. His hand twitches towards his phone as he contemplates throwing a quick text to Niall to check in, but then he remembers that it finally gave up the ghost on the drive over and he doesn’t have a charger with him anyway. He has nothing but a dead phone, a credit card stuffed in his back pocket and yesterday’s clothes which he is currently wearing. He could probably ask someone to go get him one if he really wants to but it’s actually quite nice to not have the tugging anxiety to check it. Besides, the only person he wants to contact him is Louis and that’s never going to happen, so it’s not all that big of a deal anyway. He can do this without checking in with Niall - he’s a big boy, he can make his own decisions. 

  
  


The meeting itself goes pretty smoothly, which was to be expected. This is a plan that management know like the back of their hands, that they’ve pulled out time and time again across the past 10 years of Harry and Louis’ careers. And sure, Harry hasn’t done it for a while, but it’s just like riding a bike right? And most importantly - that doesn’t matter. Because this is going to be an act of protection for him and for Louis. This is the way that he takes back control and buys them time to work out how to deal with the blackmailer, how to fix their relationship, how to find their way back to each other. It makes perfect sense and Harry can’t believe that no one had thought of it before. 

 

He’s getting himself a girlfriend. 

 

Not a real one, obviously, but that’s nothing new. He’s had years of experience navigating stunts and they don’t hurt like they used to. He’s even come to grow fond of Eleanor over the years, once they’d all finally managed to settle into a proper pattern of life together - it had got even easier once she switched from being employed by management to being employed directly by Louis and all of them had grown so much happier. Just that simple act of control had changed the whole narrative - less of the awkward pretend kissing photos that, bless Louis’ soul, really never worked and more occasional photos at public houses or with the dogs. She’s less of a fake girlfriend these days and more just an assistant and honestly, Harry’s glad that Louis has her right now because she’s probably the only other person Louis will actually listen to. Not that he’d exactly listen to Harry right now, but still, at least there’s someone. This situation will be nothing like that though - this is much more temporary, more of the standard management template and Harry is ok with that. He doesn’t need control, doesn’t need something elaborate and long term. He just needs to buy a little time. 

 

During the meeting, management had presented Harry with a selection of different options which yeah...never got any less creepy to be honest. In the end, he’d settled for a model who he was pretty certain he’d met at a party with Cara a couple of years back. Well, less met and more “saw her draped over Cara’s lap giving her the heart eyes” but same difference. Harry has always tried to go for other queer folk whenever he can for his stunts in the past few years or at least people he knows will be sympathetic. It’s easier that way, prevents any misplaced feelings from getting in the way, keeps things strictly business.

 

Harry’s always had an easier time with stunts than Louis given that the thought of kissing women doesn’t physically repulse him, but this one is already making his skin itch. It should be easy enough - a quick lunch out, a bit of walking through the park, a hug by the car, maybe a peck on the cheek - but even that feels like a lot for him right now. All he really wants is to be doing those things with Louis, but this needs to happen so really, it doesn’t matter how he feels. He just needs to suck it up and get it done. 

 

The car pulls up outside the restaurant just as Harry is caught on a train of thought about how fucking  _ weird _ stunts are and his driver coughs loudly to grab his attention. Even after all these years, he never ceases to be amazed by how easy it is to sell straight relationships to people - hours of footage of him and Louis all over each other and people will claim they’re “just good friends”; one photo of him walking next to a woman and they’re practically engaged to be married but hey heteronormativity is a wild, wild ride and he’s dealt with more of its impact than most. Which is why he’s now plastering on his best smile, unbuttoning the shirt that a management intern had dashed out to buy just an hour before and stepping out with his best “I’m super into this and love to date” face on. They’d decided that there was no point waiting around and to just get it all done today, but given Harry’s hungover and unwashed state, they’d also decided to gently nudge him in the direction of the employee showers whilst sending someone out with the company credit card in the direction of YSL. He didn’t tell them about his phone being out of battery though, secretly revelling in the peace of it sitting dead and lifeless in his back pocket. 

 

The date itself is easy enough and the girl seems sweet. She’s a couple of years younger than him, up and coming in the fashion scene and kind of quirky looking in the way that most of Cara’s friends are. They’ve gone with a short contract - just a month to start to see if that’s enough to shake things up and buy a little time to make a more concrete plan, and Harry feels himself relax a little as they spend more time together. They’ve both recently read the same Sontag work (On Photography, which is technically a re-read for Harry but it’s so long since the first time he could barely remember it), and spend the bulk of their time together talking about art, photography and the importance of the critical eye. It’s nice just to talk to someone normally in all honesty, and to not feel like he’s being studied for signs of an impending mental breakdown. As far as his date is concerned, this is just a big standard publicity stunt that will hopefully boost her profile and maybe give her a half decent friendship. Harry drinks in the peace of it all and let’s himself pretend that’s the case for him too, just for a little while at least. After all, the whole date is make believe, so there’s nothing wrong with a little method acting. 

 

He and management had agreed to do a quick release on the photos - again, no point in waiting around - and the low res versions are due to be “leaked” by the time Harry arrives home. Normally, Harry would keep an eye on it all, check things are moving in the desired way, see how people are reacting, but he’s bone tired, the combination of last night’s hangover and an intense day of activity finally catching up on him, and falls asleep on the couch the minute he walks through his front door. 

 

He’s awoken some hours later by the feeling of being punched repeatedly in the arm. 

 

“Harry I swear to god if you’re trying to send me to an early grave, it’s working, you absolute cunting prick” Harry blearily opens his eyes to see Niall standing above him, arm raised to go in with another blow. Nick is standing behind  _ him _ and catches his wrist just before it makes contact. 

 

“He’s awake Ni, give him a minute”

 

“Doesn’t deserve a fucking minute,” Niall mumbles to himself, but he refrains from punching Harry all the same as he shakes off Nick’s grip. 

 

Harry’s head is pounding and he’s vaguely aware of not having eaten or drunk anything all day aside from during his lunch date. 

 

“Water, please, and then you can keep shouting at me” His mouth is desert dry and his voice is all clumsy with mid afternoon sleep. 

 

Niall opens his mouth to protest but Nick fixes him a look and heads off towards the kitchen swiftly returning with a pint glass of water and a banana, which he throws directly at Harry’s dick. Harry is pretty certain that’s not an accident but fine, whatever, it’s better than being punched awake. 

 

“I guess they published the pictures then?” Harry daren’t make eye contact as he speaks and focuses his attention on unpeeling his banana instead.

 

“Yes, they fucking published the pictures and some cunt has had his phone off all day and honestly Harry, next time this sort of shit happens I’m not going to worry if you’re dead, I’m not going to call all your friends, I’m just gonna take the first fucking flight to Barbados and leave you to sort this shit out on your own. I found my first grey hair the other day, did you know that? I’m not even 30 and of all the bullshit things that are turning me grey, it’s Harry fucking Styles.” Niall paces his way around the coffee table as he speaks, arms waving accusingly at Harry every few words. Nick ducks around him moving vases and stray glasses of half drunk smoothies out of the way to make sure Niall doesn’t send them flying all over the carpet. 

 

“Sorry”

 

“Sorry? Fucking  _ sorry?  _ That’s all you have to sa-“

 

Nick cuts Niall off with a hand on his shoulder and a gentle smile

 

“I think what Niall is trying to say is that when you’re so drunk your best friend has to take you home to keep you safe, and then said best friend wakes up to find you’ve disappeared without leaving a note, and your phone is off, and the only thing we see of you all day is a pap pic with a new fake girlfriend that none of us know about, we all worry a bit and would appreciate a heads up in the future. Also, you are absolutely paying half towards my retirement villa because you’re a tit.”

 

Harry knows he should reply, that he should explain or fight his corner or  _ something _ , but in all honesty, he’s tired. He’s tired of seeming to fuck up no matter how hard he tries, tired of having his best friends in a constant state of panic because of him, tired of being apart from Louis. He hopes beyond anything that maybe, somehow, Louis at least will see it for what it is - a peace offering, a patch of bought time, an act of protection and sacrifice - and that somehow they’ll come back to each other. So instead, he just takes a deep breath, eats his banana and closes his eyes as he listens to the sounds of his two best friends taking it in turns to tell him exactly how much he’s fucked up. He probably deserves it after all, and anything feels easier than trying to find the words to explain just exactly how broken he feels. Anything. 

 

~~~~

 

Louis knows that checking his twitter feed was a bad idea. He knows it the minute it he picked up his phone and tapped open the app, and yet he’s doing it anyway. He’s barely used Twitter over the past couple of weeks, or Instagram, or anything that involves more than the most basic of human interaction. He keeps having recurring nightmares about opening one of them up one day to see that picture of his husband being fucked again and yeah, no thank you. Then, there’s the thought of seeing the picture that’s planned for Harry’s big coming out which honestly makes his stomach churn just to think about. He doesn’t even know if that plan is still happening but he assumes it must be because it was what Harry had wanted and what Harry wants he tends to get. But anyway, for some reason, he decided to ignore his gut instinct and open up the stupid app. Big mistake. Huge fucking monumental mistake. Because spread across his entire feed are pictures of Harry quite clearly out on a date with some leggy blonde model at some ridiculous hipster restaurant in town. 

  
  


Louis doesn’t resist the urge to throw his phone and moments after it clatters against the wall, Eleanor comes rushing into the room to survey the damage. His phone is very much broken but he really couldn’t give less of a toss. 

 

“You saw then?” He can hear the pity in Eleanor’s voice and fuck, she must be sick of him. She’s been playing nursemaid for weeks now, keeping him just on the edge of functional, and every time they make an inch of progress something happens to drag him all the way back. 

 

“Yup.” Louis really isn’t in the mood to talk about it. 

 

“D’ya want to talk about it?”

 

“Nope.”

 

Eleanor sighs and perches on the edge of the bed. 

 

“You know it’s not real right? Like, he’s not that stupid. It’ll be a stunt. I mean come on Lou, when was the last time Harry even looked at a girl? He’s not gonna be out there getting off with one is he?”

 

“People change Eleanor. I didn’t think he’d be out there getting off with any guys either, but that didn’t stop him letting one put a dick in his arse did it?” Louis digs his fingernails into his thigh as he speaks and Eleanor gently twines her fingers with his to make him stop. He shakes her off, and he knows it’s not her fault and that she’s just trying to help but honestly, he wants to her to leave him be. He can’t process all of this with someone else, he’s not even sure if he can process this by himself.

 

“El, can you just...head out? Take Oli with you and the dogs. I just...I just need to be alone.” She shoots him a look and starts to speak, “I’m not gonna off myself or anything. I just can’t keep it together right now. Need to let myself get a bit messy y’know?”

 

She nods and makes to walk out of the room, turning to him before she leaves “Just be careful yeah? Oli only finished cleaning the bathrooms this morning; last thing he’ll want is to have to clean them again because your broken arse can’t manage to throw up in the right place.” She lets out a little wry laugh and Louis knows that she’s trying her absolute hardest to pretend that she doesn’t think this is the stupidest thing he’s asked her to do for a while. He appreciates that, he really does. 

 

Once he hears the front door click shut, Louis pushes himself out of bed and heads down the hallway to the master bathroom. It’s going to be the first time for a while that he’s let himself properly lose it, and whilst to anyone looking in from the outside it might appear that everything that’s about to happen is chaotic and unplanned, he has a very strict system that he likes to follow - slipping into it comes easily, like no time has passed at all. 

 

To start, he draws himself a bath that’s just a little too hot to be comfortable, but that’s all part of the process. He scrambles around in the cupboards pulling out bottles and jars until he finds what he’s looking for - a single glittery bath bomb. He grimaces a little as he holds it because it had been Harry’s idea to introduce the glitter bombs into his destruction days so that “even when you’re sad and lonely you can be reminded that there are still nice things in the world”, but honestly it wouldn’t feel right to do it without one now. It’s all part of the ritual, part of getting him into the headspace that lets him really break free and he needs that right now. Their first TV performance as a band is tomorrow and he really, really wants to not fuck it up; giving himself a pressure valve is the best possible chance of making sure that doesn’t happen. 

 

Once he’s washed and clean (well, aside from the soft coating of glitter that sticks to his skin), Louis pulls on his softest, comfiest tracksuit bottoms and an old band t shirt with holes worn through the threadbare fabric. He dries his hair and takes the time to carefully shave away his stubble, easing the razor across his skin with the utmost care. The last thing he needs is a massive gash across his throat or something equally distracting. It always been the same for him - physically, he needs to feel as good as he can to be able mentally let himself go to the extent he needs to. He surveys himself in the mirror, shimmering and smooth and delicate. Good enough, he thinks. 

 

Breakfast is a no go, but he also doesn’t want to completely fuck himself up so he forces down a glass of orange juice and chops a couple of bananas for later, throwing them into a Tupperware which he stashes in the fridge. He grabs a couple of bottles of the ridiculously overpriced water Oli and Eleanor both seem to like ( _ seriously _ , why they don’t just drink tap water like normal people he does not know, but right now he’s grateful for the ease of it) and then jogs back upstairs to his bedroom. 

 

He and Harry had spent a lot of time working on the design of the master bedroom in all of their shared houses, and this one is no different. They’d always shared spaces really, although certain houses were more Louis’ and some were more Harry’s - and this one had always felt the most like his. This house is full of comfort and familiarity and, most importantly, well designed spaces full of secret compartments for hiding the things that millionaire pop stars wanted to keep from prying eyes. 

 

The wooden panelling behind the bed in the master room is a beautiful chocolate brown, all sleek and matte and modern. When he and Harry has chosen it, they both had requested a number of concealed drawers be built in, almost impossible to detect if you don’t know what you’re looking for. There’s 5 in total - one for each of them to stash important documents and sentimental knick knacks (they both have a copy of their marriage certificate and a stupid fake plastic flower from the leis they’d worn on their Hawaiian honeymoon), one for sex toys which...yeah, Louis really doesn’t need to see, one which, in all honesty, Louis cannot remember the contents of for the life of him (possibly some sort of protective crystals Harry had bought during one of his more hippy phases but  _ who knows)  _ and the final one, which Louis is currently crawling on his hands and knees to open. 

 

It had been no secret that Louis had used drugs at various points over the years to cope, especially when the pressure of the band got too much - there were videos and pictures to make sure of that. What was a little more secret was that Harry was actually the one who tended to go harder than him. Harry was the one into the whole geeky side of drug taking, spending hours reading forums on the best vitamin cocktails to prevent chronic come downs, buying little lab testing kits to make sure whatever he bought was the best possible quality, keeping a little notebook of how each different drug affected the two of them so they always had reference material should they ever want to feel a certain way. Neither of them had ever let it slip to the point of being a problem, never got to the point of reliance or addiction, but they have both had moments across the years where they would use drugs in slightly less...controlled ways. Today is going to be one of them. 

 

Harry, bless his shitty heart, always kept their stash box impeccably well organised and Louis catches himself as he smiles fondly at his husband’s neat handwriting on the labels that adorn each little bag. The name, date of purchase and recommended dosage are first, followed by a little reference number, each of which matches to a page in Harry’s notebook. As much as he wishes he didn’t have to, Louis opens the notebook and starts sifting through. He never really took a great interest in exactly  _ what  _ they were taking - he always just trusted Harry and knew that if he told him how he wanted to feel, Harry would be able to magic up the exact thing that would help. There were drugs for inspiration, drugs for joy, drugs to ease anxiety and drugs to keep you going during a packed schedule. Harry had even once claimed that he had a beautiful little mix of who-knows-what that he’d bought from who-knows-where that both made fruit taste like colours  _ and _ acted as an instant migraine cure. Louis had never quite been convinced. 

 

For now, he focuses on scanning through the index ( _ of course  _ Harry had made a fucking index for a handwritten drug notebook) until he finds what he’s looking for - “drugs to lose yourself in”. There’s a few different ones listed, each with sub categories that read like the seven fucking dwarves - ‘angry’, ‘sleepy’, ‘spacey’, ‘trippy’. He flicks through the different pages, trying his hardest to ignore the notes about Harry’s experience and focusing on his own. Today, he just needs to escape, to fall out of time and space, to lose the need for control or comfort and to just exist as pure nothingness. 

 

Ketamine it is. 

 

He’s never been one to revel in the act of drug taking, viewing it more as a means to an end, so he weighs and cuts his lines quickly and efficiently, going for the maximum suggested dosage Harry has noted down for him (all calculated using his personal average body weight, because again, Harry is the most extra and ridiculous drug taker of all time). He briefly scans the notes again and sees that Harry recommends a couple of different pre-trip supplements which he swallows down dry, too focused on the task at hand to bother nipping to the bathroom for water. Harry, of course, had invested in a ridiculously obnoxious range of drug paraphernalia and has tubes in a whole host of colours, shapes and sizes but Louis prefers to keep it simple and fishes an old £20 note from the bottom of the box, it’s edges curled in from years of being wound into a tight little tube for exactly this purpose. It doesn’t take long for everything to start to kick in, and Louis feels himself start to float away. 

 

It’s maybe not his usual tactic - normally he goes for something that will burn all the energy out of him, have him smashing glasses and screaming at the top of his lungs and running laps around the house, but today it feels right to just let himself dissolve into nothingness. He lets himself be pulled under, blanketed in the sensation of soft clouds and fuzzy limbs. He flops onto the bed, muscles heavy, and feels it happen in slow motion, watches himself from the outside. The playlist he’d chosen drones in the background and Louis is only half aware of it, noticing how much space there is between the notes and how strung out each bar seems to be. The room expands and contracts and for a moment, he feels the panic rising, feels himself worry that this isn’t safe, that he’s fucked up. But then he glances the notebook out of the corner of his eye and peace settles over him, too far gone to hold any of the anger he’d felt not even an hour before. In every trip he’s ever had, that notebook has been his anchor, his safety net because it’s written by Harry, and even on his wildest trips, his most otherworldly experiences, he’s always known one thing - no matter what, beyond a shadow of a doubt, Harry loves him unconditionally and would never let him come to harm. In spite of everything, today is no different and that is the final coherent thought Louis has before time starts bending and reality slips away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry, you're an idiot. That is all.
> 
>  
> 
> Expanded TW: Louis takes drugs as a coping mechanism for being very upset about what Harry does in the first half of this chapter. The drug he chooses is Ketamine and there is some description of the effect of ketamine on him. It is implied that he takes quite a large amount but is still very safe about it. He is still using drugs as an escape mechanism and it's implied that he is going to lose control.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeyyyyy.
> 
> So, I've been gone for a while. It turns out a break up, a nightmare work schedule, moving house and an injured wrist is a whole lot of writing distraction. BUT spring is creeping ever nearer, the days are getting longer and this morning I woke up full of inspiration for my beloved Oi Oi. 
> 
> I want to say a huge thank you for some of the honestly beautiful comments I had on chapter 11, especially during the lull in writing. They're the reason I keep going.
> 
> Big TWon this chapter for eating disorder stuff so if that's a trigger for you, be gentle with yourself or skip entirely. View end notes for an overview. Also small TW for referenced drug use. This is a painful one so strap in lads and make sure you're all well hydrated.

Louis knows that he can't carry on like this indefinitely, not with tour looming on the horizon, but he doesn't know how to pull himself out of the cycle, doesn't know how to right himself again. It's been almost a week since the photo of Harry and his stunt had dropped, but he’s still not managed to leave the house. There’s reasons of course - one is that he knows better to leave the house when he’s absolutely fucked on whatever substance of choice he’s in the mood for, and most days, he’s very much that. The other is that it’s just...hard to walk far when your body is running on the bare minimum, when you can't remember the last time you ate a full meal. 

 

Today though, today he has to leave the house. He can't even remember  _ why  _ he has to leave, just knows that at some point last night Eleanor came into his room, confiscated his stash box, dragged him into the shower fully clothed and told him in no uncertain terms she wasn't leaving until he ate something because he needed to get his shit together so that he could do...whatever the fuck it is that he’s currently waiting to be driven to.

 

His skin feels tight and dry, and even his softest clothes feel wrong against it. He just feels lost, uncertain of his place in the world, unsure of how to move on. He’d hoped that maybe he could just blast it all out of his system, let himself get fucked up once or twice and then hit reset, pull himself through, but no. No, there doesn't seem to be a quick fix for this, doesn't seem to be an easy answer. And so he’s just letting himself sink deeper, hoping that maybe at some point he’ll drown in it all and someone else will find a way to pull him back out, will breathe some life back into his lungs. It's pathetic, and he knows it, but he’s given up on pretending to be anything but. It's his patheticness that got them into this mess after all, he thinks bleakly. 

 

He closes his eyes and rests his head against his knees as he sits on the bottom step, waiting for the buzzer to go that will announce his car arriving. He regrets it instantly, a flashback to a night long ago quickly working its way into his mind - he doesn't even remember quite when the memory is from, just knows that Harry has long hair and that it hadn't been long after they’d redecorated the hallway. The smell of fresh paint ghosts in Louis’ nostrils, and he knows it isn't real, knows it’s just one of those quirks of the brain, but he still runs his finger along the skirting board just to check it isn't wet. It isn't, of course, but he remembers how it had been that night, when he sat bundled up on the bottom step, sobbing into his knees whilst Harry sat on the cold marble floor across from him, sobbing into his own.

 

It was before they’d taken coming out off the table, back when Harry would still try to push and push, try to explain his way of thinking to Louis, try to help him understand that it was safe. Louis didn't believe him, never believed him, and they'd ended up screaming at each other. At one point, Louis had told Harry that they shouldn't come out because it would be a mess when they broke up, and that's what had led to them both sat silent across from each other, sobbing in an empty hallway. Harry had thought it meant that Louis didn't want him anymore but it had never been that, would never be that. No, Louis had just been preparing himself for the inevitable day when Harry finally came to his senses and realised how much better he could do than Louis, when he left him for a man who was easier, hotter, taller, stronger. Less work, less stress, less impossible. Back then, Harry had promised it would never happen, had pressed kisses into his tear stained face and told him that their love was eternal, that  _ he  _ was the undeserving one, that soulmates could never be separated. How naive they both had been. 

 

The buzzer goes eventually, pulling Louis from his thoughts and he wipes his sleeve across his face as he stumbles up towards the door. He’s still a little unsteady on his feet, the banana Eleanor had forced him to eat an hour earlier nowhere near enough to make up for the days without sustenance, but he’s ok, he’s strong, he's a professional. He can do this...whatever  _ this _ is.

 

Before long, the car is pulling up outside an anonymous looking office block. Louis recognises it immediately and takes a sharp inhale of breath - wardrobe fitting day for tour. Fuck. A whole day of being in a state of undress, a whole day of being looked at and prodded and poked. They’re nowhere near as bad as the early days when none of them could stay focused long enough to stand still, but they’re still one of his least favourite things, even on a good day. Endless hours of being touched, being naked, looking at himself in the mirror and scrutinising every flaw and every blemish. Louis can't even remember the last time he’d looked at himself in the mirror, can't remember the last time he even really spoke to anyone other than El, and even that wasn't much more than basic polite one word answers. 

 

He notices his driver, glancing anxiously into the mirror, clearly not sure if he should say something. The car has been sat silently for a good 5 minutes now, and Louis hasn't even started to move towards getting out. He knows he needs to, knows he should, but his limbs just don't seem to want to cooperate, gluing him down into the seat. Thankfully he’s saved from doing anything by the sharp wrap of knuckles in the window next to him and the sound of the car door being opened from the outside. 

 

“You coming in then wanker or you just gonna sit out here all day?” Niall grins, and Louis tries his best not to focus on how tightly stretched his mouth is, how laced with fake joviality his voice sounds. He’s suddenly reminded of all the times his mum used to try to hold it together for the kids when he knew shit was falling apart and pinches his thigh to stem the tears that are threatening to prickle at the edges of his eyes. 

 

“Yeah yeah, just waiting for your lazy arse to turn up weren't I?” His own voice doesn't sound much better, dry and scratchy and rough from lack of use. 

 

They walk in together and Louis feels thankful for a moment of make believe, just a casual chat with one of his oldest friends, listening to him ramble on about Derby’s targets for the upcoming transfer window and both of them pretending that Louis doesn't look like shit and isn't on the brink of collapse.

 

They finally make it to the dressing room and Louis holds his breath, feeling every muscle, every tendon in his sinewy body tense and ache as he waits to be greeted with  _ Harry Harry Harry  _ but he isn't there. It's just Liam, already stripped down to his boxers, and three fussing stylists, and racks upon racks of clothes. 

 

Louis smiles wanly, nodding his head in greeting at everyone in the room, and starts stripping off. He positions himself as far away from the mirrors as possible and keeps his glance fixed firmly on the floor. He doesn't really care what he looks like, but it’s easier just not to know, to just let it be another part of this whole mess that he doesn't have to deal with. His head feels a little swimmy as he starts to pull his hoodie off over his head, and he stays stuck half way while he takes a slow steadying breath to try and pull himself back together, before pulling it all the way off.

 

“Jesus Lou” Liam’s voice is barely a whisper, caught on the intake of his breath. 

 

“Leave it Li.” Louis doesn't have to look up to know that Niall is currently fixing Liam with the harshest and most protective of glares. He remains silent, gaze fixed down, the soft heat of embarrassment burning at his chest. He pulls the hoodie in his hands a little closer to his body, trying to find a way to feel less exposed, less seen.

 

“Niall, fucking look at him. He’s skin and bones. We can't just fucking  _ leave it.” _

 

Louis wishes that the ground would swallow him up, that he had the brain power for a snappy come back, that he could do anything other than stand there half naked in front of his friends, scrutinised and talked about like some sort of animal. But he can barely even breathe, can feel that his legs are starting to shake beneath him from the effort of standing on so little fuel, so he just stays and bites the inside of his cheek, willing himself not to cry. 

 

“He’s also a fully grown man and our friend and we are not fucking doing this.” Niall’s voice sounds thick with tension, distorted and tight. Louis has closed his eyes but thinks he hears the sound of the wardrobe team politely excusing themself from the scene, probably shuffling off to the kitchen to whisper amongst themselves about what a fucking  _ mess _ he is. At least he won't have to hear it. Small graces and all that. 

 

Louis braces himself for Liam’s reply, but it never comes. The room has suddenly gone silent, and his own breathing sounds impossibly loud in his ears. He’s on the brink of opening his eyes, turning round to see if Liam and Niall have fucked off too, gone down to the kitchen to have a good gossip and work out a plan when he hears a soft and oh so painfully familiar “Fuck” whispered behind him. 

 

“Get out.”

 

Harry’s voice quakes, the effort of trying to stay calm clearly taking its toll and Louis has never felt so exposed, never felt so naked and he almost forgets that technically he’s still half dressed. He really doesn't feel right, like his head is too heavy for his neck, and the ground feels like it’s moving underneath him, and everything just feels too much, far too much. Liam starts to speak again but Louis can’t quite make out what he’s saying, cut off by Harry, voice louder this time, not quite a shout but not far off.

 

“I said get. The fuck. Out.”

 

Louis whips his head around and briefly catches a glimpse of Harry’s face, anger and fury and heartbroken pain written all across it. He opens his mouth to say that he’s fine, that they can stay but nothing comes out and everything goes black and Louis doesn't even feel it when his head hits the floor.

 

~~~~~~

 

Harry paces the room anxiously as he bites his thumb nail. He knows that this was probably a terrible idea but also, in the moment he was just running on adrenaline and sheer fury that anyone had let Louis get into such a bad state and never even thought to fucking  _ do something. _

 

He knows what Louis is like, knows how bad things can get but honestly, it had never been like this, not whilst they’d been together, because Harry had always been there to make sure of it. He would never have let Louis go for what looks like  _ weeks _ without eating, would never have let him go through the fucking embarrassment of undressing in front of a room of people looking like that, would never have let him come out in public at the risk of collapse and concussion and fuck knows what. Harry probably should have taken him to hospital, he thinks, pacing more frantically. Fuck, why did he bring him back here, to the Stokey flat of all places. Louis isn't the biggest fan of this place at the best of times, never has been. Fuck, he's a fucking idiot.

 

Harry has just about resolved to carry Louis back out to the car and drive him over to the private wing of UCH when he hears the sound of blankets being shuffled and a soft rattling intake of breath from the sofa. He glances over to see Louis slowly blinking himself awake. 

 

“What the fuck…”

 

“Lou let me explain-” Harry sees Louis start to make sudden movements as though he’s about to lift himself up from the sofa and run. Chance would be a fine thing, Harry thinks, knowing that Louis wouldn't be able to run if he wanted to, not with how weak and frail and fuck…”-just stay there ok. Please. Stay there and don't move. I'm going to make you tea. Just...just don't go, ok? Not yet. Please.” Harry’s voice catches in his throat and he forces himself to keep looking in Louis’ direction. He doesn't respond with anything more than a small nod, and Harry takes that to mean it's safe for him to leave the room. 

 

He makes tea quickly, and is thankful that Niall had snuck a small packet of Yorkshire into the back of the cupboard last time he’d come round. Harry had been meaning to throw it away but couldn't bring himself to and feels glad of it now, knowing that even though it won't fix everything, it’ll be something at least. Even in his darkest moments, Louis will never say no to tea. He scoops in three sugars and winces a bit as he imagines the sweetness against his teeth; neither of them take sugar in their tea usually but again, Harry knows. He’ll always know, no matter what happens between them, that when Louis is broken, he takes three sugars in his tea and refuses to let anyone acknowledge it. Stubborn and proud to a fault, his husband. 

 

Harry doesn't smile. 

  
  


He wordlessly pads back into the lounge and passes the tea over to Louis, who offers him a wane smile of thanks, before sitting himself down in the armchair closest to the corner of the sofa Louis has chosen to curl up in. Neither of them speak for a while, and Harry just watches as Louis takes the smallest of sips, trying his hardest not to stare. It's impossible though, impossible not to stare when the man he loves is finally here in front of him, impossible not to stare when Louis is pale paper skin stretched out across too delicate bones and when he looks like the hint of a breeze might snap him in two. Harry can't work out what parts of him to focus on most, senses overwhelmed and spread thin with the effort of trying to absorb every last detail - are the deep purple bruises beneath his eyes more important than his laboured and uneven breaths? Are the sharp points of his collarbone more significant than the jutted out hollows where his joggers hang off his hips? Does he fix his attention on the soft rumblings that have been coming from his stomach, rhythmic and constant since Harry got him off the floor and into the car, or does he fix it on the redness that surrounds his nostrils and the ever present  _ sniff _ ?

 

It's Louis who breaks the silence first. 

 

“Do you want to explain or…” His voice is delicate, weak, wavering. Harry forces himself to take a breath before replying, willing his voice to come out soft and gentle like he's speaking to a wounded animal. 

 

“You passed out, hit your head a bit. Don't think you have a concussion or anything, someone did check but you were pretty out of it and then you just fell asleep so I...bought you back here. I'm sorry Louis. I didn't know else to do. I couldn't leave you there, couldn't have everyone looking at you like this, it's not fair Lou. I tried to get hold of Eleanor but I think she might have blocked me or something and I couldn't get into your phone because you've changed your passcode-” Harry steadies himself again with a long breath. Louis’ passcode had been Harry’s birthday for as long as he can remember and Louis doesn't need to know that he’d cried when he found out it wasn't any more, “-so bringing you back here just made the most sense. I'm so sorry. I can ring for a driver whenever you want just...can I…?”

 

“Can you what Harry?” Louis voice sounds small, broken. He doesn't look up, doesn't glance in Harry’s direction. 

 

Harry bites his lip, the words forming behind his teeth full of fear and uncertainty. 

 

“Can I cook for you? Just one meal. It won't be big, it won't be fancy. I need to cook for me anyway, so I'm not even cooking for you really. I just don't think I could live with sending you out there without anything.”

 

Harry doesn't say that he's worried. He doesn't say that he’d been considering calling Louis’ psychiatrist to find out if they've been in touch recently. He doesn't say that in the time that Louis slept he’d written a meal plan and was planning on emailing it over to Eleanor with strict instructions on exactly how to coax Louis into eating again. He doesn't say any of this, just holds his breath and hopes that Louis will say yes. 

 

He doesn't, but he does nod his head, just once, a subtle movement that Harry could have missed if he wasn't hyperfixated on every little motion and intake of breath coming from that corner of the sofa. He starts to move, lifting himself up from the arch, mind already focused on what he’s going to make, but he's pulled back by the faintest touch of fingers against his wrist. 

 

“Would you…”

 

Louis’s voice peters out, had been nothing more than the faintest whisper to begin with, and Harry opens his mouth to prompt him to carry on but there's no need. 

 

“Stay. Not hungry yet.”

 

Harry goes to move into the armchair again but those fingers catch against his wrist again and he catches Louis glancing at the space on the sofa beside him. 

 

“Yeah?” Harry breathes the word gently, feeling like the pounding of his heart might be loud enough for Louis to hear against the silence of the room. 

 

Louis nods again.

 

Harry settles down next to him and doesn't let himself flinch as Louis pulls closer to him. Tentatively, Harry moves his arm, crooking his elbow across the back of the sofa, leaving himself open and exposed. Louis doesn't look up at him, doesn't smile, just slots himself into the space that's been made for him and Harry gently, as though Louis is made of glass and might break under the slightest pressure, closes his arm around him. 

 

They stay like that for who knows how long, and Harry ignores the damp patch on his t shirt that has been rapidly growing as Louis has silently sobbed against his chest until the growling of his own stomach breaks the silence and Louis pulls away suddenly, a jumble of  _ sorrysorrysorry  _ caught beneath his breath. Harry lets a soft reassurance ghost across his lips as he rises to stand, finally making his way to the kitchen.

 

He cooks silently, swiftly, his attention half fixed on listening out for anything that might suggest Louis is going to leave before he can finish cooking. It's a simple meal - pasta from a packet in the back of the cupboard and a smooth red sauce that’s packed with as many veggies and supplements as he could reasonably blend into it without it tasting weird. He loads a huge portion into his own bowl, almost comically piled up, and takes a smaller, empty bowl from the cupboard for Louis. He stacks them in his arms, clutching the parmesan and a grater between his fingers and the cutlery in his mouth. It's ridiculous, but he knows that the minute he’s back in the living room he won't want to leave again. His heart hasn't stopped rabbiting against his ribs since he stepped off the sofa and he just needs to feel like he can breathe again. 

 

Harry makes it through to the living room and stops himself from letting out an exhale of relief when he sees Louis is still there. He takes his place next to him once more, silently placing the empty bowl and a fork into Louis’ hands as he balances his own on his lap. He waits for a silent moment, willing himself not to watch how much Louis loads onto his own bowl, biting down gently on his tongue to stop himself from commenting on how little he's taken. Harry has done this for long enough, he knows the way it plays out - Louis starts small, tentative, and Harry eats from the side of the bowl furthest away from him, pretends not to notice the moments where Louis dips his fork in to scoop more tiny portions into his bowl. Harry eats slowly, taking the time to chew and swallow as consciously as he can, not wanting to be the first to finish. He knows that once he’s done, Louis will stop too and he can't have that happen until he’s certain Louis is done. 

 

It's one of the slowest meals of Harry’s life. Nothing but the sounds of their chews and swallows and shaky breaths against the deafening silence that surrounds them. Eventually, Louis puts his bowl down on the coffee table and Harry forces himself to take a few more mouthfuls, to pretend he hasn't been waiting for Louis, to keep up the facade that nothing out of the ordinary is happening. 

 

Harry moves forward, starts to stack the bowls ready to carry through into the kitchen but is caught by that soft glance of fingers across his wrist yet again, slightly firmer now as though the food had somehow made Louis less ghost like, less faded from reality. 

 

“Stay.”

 

Harry doesn't question it, would never question it. He stays, because he will always stay, because every atom inside of him is fine tuned to meet Louis’ needs, no matter how much it will hurt tomorrow, no matter how harshly it makes the blinked back tears sting against his eyes. 

 

He’s the one responsible for this. He deserves the pain. 

 

Louis shuffles his body next to him and Harry realises that he’s shifted himself to lie back down, gently pulling Harry to come join him. Harry wordlessly tucks in behind Louis’ curled up form, the position unfamiliar and uncertain. His wrist is met by softly ghosting fingers one last time as Louis pulls Harry’s arm tight across his chest. They both lay silently curled up against one another as Harry bites down on his bottom lip to stop himself to pressing a tear stained kiss against the back of his husband’s neck and pretends not to notice that Louis has pulled Harry's fingers up to rest against his lips. 

 

He closes his eyes and prays for peace. 

  
  


~~~~

 

Harry doesn't know when they fell asleep, has no idea what time it is now, but can place a guess at it being somewhere in the early hours of the morning, just as the first of the commuters are starting to stir. There's a gentle buzz of traffic staring to hum outside and if he didn't live in London Zone 2, he would probably be able to hear the first notes of the dawn chorus. He opens his eyes slowly and blinks as he comes to, taking in his surroundings - he’s on the sofa in his living room, a blanket tucked around him, a cushion beneath his head and another curled into the crook of him arm. 

 

He's alone. 

 

He looks towards the door, just wanting to confirm it, the check that Louis isn't in the bathroom or the bedroom or fuck, anywhere really but no, his shoes are gone and his coat as well and Harry is alone and once the tears start, they just won't stop falling. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter honestly hurt my soul. When I did my reread before posting I was just sat in a silent house trying not to cry for them both. 
> 
> Expanded TW:  
> This whole chapter focuses on how bad Louis' disordered eating and depression have become. There's a lot of reference to how small he's become and a lot of comments on how he looks. At one point he collapses due to lack of food. Liam tries to stage a very poorly considered intervention, lots of stuff around people talking about him as though he isn't there. References to taking drugs every day and having physical signs of this.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter? So soon? Shocking I know. 
> 
> It's all thanks to your sweet sweet comments. Some people respond very well to praise. (I respond very well to praise).

For the first couple of hours after Harry wakes up, he doesn't try to do anything but cry. He doesn't pick himself from where he’d crumpled into the corner of the sofa that he can pretend still smells like Louis, doesn't wipe a hand across his tear sodden cheeks, doesn't tug a sleeve to wipe his streaming nose. He lets the tears shake his body, noisy and messy and uncomfortable. It's cathartic in a way, a physical reminder of the pain inside. It makes a change from everyone trying to protect him, trying to keep him in one piece. He’s needed this, he thinks, needed a little space to fall apart, needed to let it just be him feeling the raw reality of his loss. 

 

It was stupid to think that one meal, one small act, was anywhere near enough to fix what he’d done but naively, he’d hoped that perhaps it would be the thing that bought them a little space to at least  _ talk _ . To spend some time just the two of them without everyone else weighing in, without it being laced in the tension of business decisions and what’s “best for the band”. After a decade of being in a pseudo-polyamorous set up between him, Louis and the team of other people with a financial investment in their every move, he should be used to it, but he’s not and at times like this, he finds himself wishing that he and Louis were just normal people with normal lives. Harry would run a little patisserie on the high street and Louis would teach drama in the local secondary school and they'd collapse into bed at the end of the day and argue about normal things like whose turn it was to unload the dishwasher and whether they had enough spare cash to financially justify buying a dog; Harry would lick sweet kisses into Louis’ mouth when the first alarm went off in the early hours of the morning and Louis would knead the tension out of his shoulders in the run up to the Valentine’s rush.

 

It wouldn't be easy, because relationships never are, but it would be their own struggle to manage, their own shit to work through. No one else would get a say and if Louis didn't want to hold his hand in the street, if he didn't want his coworkers to know he was gay, it wouldn't be anywhere as significant. Harry catches himself for a moment and wonders if that's true, if he could be happy in the long term, in a normal life, if Louis still didn't feel out and proud and he lets out a sad sigh at the realisation that he wholeheartedly thinks that he could. It's just now, with the lies and the deception and the constant dodging questions and the daily reminders that there are people out there who are emotionally invested in them  _ not _ being together that makes it so hard. 

 

Harry drags his phone from its place on the coffee table, battery almost dead, and forces himself to open up the video file again. It's become a near daily ritual, forcing himself to sit and watch himself getting fucked in a shitty hotel room by a shitty man who was clearly just looking for some fast cash and he asks himself  _ why _ . He’s asked the same question every day since the video first played, since everything came crashing down around them both - Why now? Why him? Why, after so many years, after so many offers, did he finally say yes? 

 

He doesn't have an answer. 

 

He feels like he should, like there should be some grand reason, some deep rooted explanation that he can give to help justify it or make sense of it, but there's nothing. It was just a straightforward fuck up, a failure of being human. Jack wasn't even his type, so he can't claim it was some sort of inescapable lust. He and Louis weren't that unhappy at the time, not really, he wasn't stressed, he wasn't fucked off his face on drugs, he was barely even tipsy. He can hardly even remember all of the little steps that lead to it happening - he knows that on the first day they kissed in a cafe, brief and sweet and chaste, entirely in line with the plan, incredibly pap friendly, and that they'd swapped numbers under the guise of meeting up to see some art exhibition they’d discussed over coffee. And then that led to the string of texts which somehow resulted in Harry being invited to an anonymous hotel room in some district of the city he wasn't even familiar with. He’d known, he must have known, on some level at least, what would happen when he said yes and he did it anyway. Threw away ten years in the blink of an eye and a quick fuck that barely made him come, took all of the love and trust and respect they’d fought so hard for and squashed it in his fingertips like it was nothing. 

 

All of this time, across all of the years and the fights and the endless fucking discussions of what was best for them, best for the band, Harry had one phrase he had thrown out at Louis in his darkest, most pain fuelled moments: 

 

“You're so fucking selfish.” 

  
  


He’d shouted it at Louis, screamed it at the top of his lungs, spat it in his direction laced with acid and pain and hurt. He’d whispered it beneath his breath, he’d kissed it into his mouth. Over and over again, this mantra, this curse that he’d spoken over the love of his life. And now, Harry realises, it had never been true, had never been fair, had never, not once, been justified. In fact, if anyone was selfish, it was Harry, who could never let it lie, could never bring himself to be the one who just settled and accepted that their love was enough. He had never trusted that Louis would get there in his own time, had never really believed that he would come around unless Harry put in the work to coerce and convince. And yet, alongside that, there was the simple truth that in all that time, in all the years that he and Louis had fought and worked and loved and struggled, Louis had never let them go to bed without an “I love you” falling from their lips. Even in the moments when they were most mad, when one of them had ended up stubbornly sleeping on the sofa, or stomping out to stay with a friend, Louis would always be the one to find a way to make sure those were the words that sealed them both towards sleep. 

 

Last night, as they had fallen asleep in one another's embrace, Harry had almost said it. He’d mouthed it, silently, trying to will himself to find the courage to be the one who said it first, but he’d been a coward, been too afraid that it might have been the thing that spooked Louis from his arms, that had him fleeing towards the door. Another selfish choice to weave into the tapestry of selfish choices Harry has left in his wake - he could have been the one to take the first step, to take the risk, but instead he chose to let himself have the fleeting comfort of his husband’s body pressed against him, to let himself feel soothed by his weight and his warmth and his smell. The power of this realisation feels enormous, an inescapable pressure in his chest. It's not that he hadn't known he’d fucked up before, it's not even that he thinks Louis is entirely blameless across the whole span of their time together - its just the sudden, bone crushing weight of understanding that in all the years they’d been together, for all his pretense of self reflection and insight, it had taken one instance of Louis leaving without saying goodbye to make him understand the reality of his own selfish nature 

 

His tears seem to have finally dried up, and he thinks to himself that he's probably too dehydrated to cry much more. His mood has shifted with the revelations of the past few moment too, and the urge to lay wallowing has passed. Harry starts to shift himself upright, the press of his bladder coming into sharp focus as he moves, when he feels his phone buzz against his lap. He glances down, not really in the mood for talking to whoever it is, and is shocked by the sight of Eleanor’s name boldly declared at the top of the screen.

 

**_What the fuck did you do to him?_ **

 

Harry thumbs open his phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard as his emotion addled brain tries to work out the politest way to reply, when another text comes through. 

 

**_He's gone._ **

 

Harry feels the air being punched out of his lungs as he drops his phone to the ground with a soft thud. He can't breathe. He cannot fucking breathe. 

 

And his husband is fucking  _ gone _ .

 

~~~~~

 

Louis stares out at the sea, trying to time his breathing with the soft flow of the waves. It's peaceful here; calm, warm. He knows that he probably should have told someone, left more details than the hastily scribbled note he’d pinned to the fridge and the text he’d shot in Eleanor’s direction before he turned his phone off, the one where he told her not to bother coming to look for him, but honestly, that would have taken a level of energy he can't even pretend to have right now. He hopes that everyone actually  _ listens,  _ believes what he’s said about not needing to worry, about being safe. He just needs space, that's all, time away. He's not going to do anything stupid, not going to off himself without leaving a note or a paper trail or a…. body. He's not that selfish. The last thing he needs is some sort of international manhunt to try and find him, for it to become some sort of ghastly tabloid spread, pornographic preemptive grief for a missing popstar that none of them really loved anyway. 

 

It's just hard to heal when you're weighed down with everyone else’s expectations, when you feel eyes burning into you, tracking every movement. When every discussion is about what you've eaten or when you last showered or if you've taken a piss today (ok, the last one is a slight exaggeration but it doesn't feel far off). It's hard to heal when everything around you reminds you of why you hurt so much in the first place.

 

Admittedly, he could have chosen somewhere a little more neutral to escape to but that would have involved research and decision making and double, triple, quadruple checking for privacy and discretion and all the other tedious shit of being a still somewhat famous popstar trying to hide his breakdown. There might be memories here, but at least there’s no staff, no risk, no people. Nothing but him and the endless expanse of bright blue ocean and a fading sunset glinting in the distance. 

 

Slowly, Louis rises from his chair on the deck and opens the screen door, stepping back inside. There’s a huge pile of fruit stacked up on the countertop and more food waiting to be unloaded from brown paper bags. He probably shouldn't have bought it all in one go, knows that most of it will go to waste but it seemed easier to pretend that this was just a normal trip, that he’s just out here doing what he always does, than to accept the reality of what pushed him to make a discreet call from a pay and go phone no one could trace to the pilot of his private jet. He fucking hates that he even has a pilot of a private jet, can't remember the last time he used it for anything outside of essential work travel and holidays with Harry that needed to be kept out of the public eye, but sometimes it can come in useful to have such a thing on a retainer contract. He’d added a hefty cash tip to account for the last minute nature of the job and to encourage a degree of...discretion. It wasn't that he‘d bought the pilot’s silence per se, more that he’d gently encouraged the idea that it wasn't really worth sharing where he'd flown him anyway. 

 

The food can wait, he decides, the urge to shower more pressing. He strips quickly, efficiently, folding his clothes in a neat pile on top of the toilet seat. He doesn't bother turning the light on, no need for the shit show that is apparently his body to be highlighted any more than necessary. The conversation that had taken place around him in the dressing room has been pinging around his head since he woke up on Harry’s sofa, a reminder of how much of a mess he is; the soft horror of Liam’s attempts to intervene, the scratchy timbre of Niall’s protective words, and Harry...just….Harry. 

 

Louis feels like he can still smell Harry on his skin, knows that he probably can't, that it's been well over 24 hours now and it’s just his mind playing tricks again, but it doesn't stop him lifting the crook of his elbow to his nose and inhaling deeply before he steps into the shower. One last hit before he washes it all away, one last reminder of why he’s out here, why he's getting away from it all. 

 

Harry’s smell has always been so specific, always been something he’s known and loved and craved, right from those early days when an over enthusiastic teenage boy had barrelled himself into Louis, having no right to smell anywhere near as deliciously intoxicating as he did. To say that Harry smells good or nice or lovely has always been too simplistic for Louis, because it's not just one scent, not just a simple note that he can name or describe. 

 

Last night, Harry had smelt like warmth and comfort and salt and the bitter tinge of stress. Louis forces himself to pull his arm away, pushing his body forward beneath the spray of the rainfall shower, washing anyway any lingering trace still stuck against his skin. 

 

As the water falls across his cheeks, down his neck, he finds himself flooded with the memory of the previous evening, of laying in Harry's arms, feeling his husband’s tears fall silently down the back of his neck. He’d wanted to turn himself around, wanted to say something that could fix it all, but the pain was still too raw and layered with the shame of everything that had led to that moment; he’d felt trapped, paralysed, unable to act. He probably shouldn't have let himself fall asleep, should have left straight after the meal, protected them both, been the strong one but in that moment, he couldn't bring himself to be. Throughout all of this, all of the pain and hurt and the knife deep rip of separation, he’s tried his utmost to make sure that Harry had people around him to fill the gap, help hold him together. But for him? There’s never been anyone who could even come close to the comfort and protection of his husband’s arms. He and Niall are close, even he and Liam have their moments, and Eleanor has come a long way over the years, but none of them understand him, not really. None of them know how to sellotape him back together, how to find the sweet spot between care and compassion and letting him work it all out. None of them can still his heart when it's beating too fast in his chest with a wordless look and none of them know how to coax him back out into the world. No one but Harry. 

 

Louis loves him. 

 

He also hates him.

 

The shower continues to pound relentlessly against him.

 

The best thing about this place, Louis thinks, isn't the ridiculously powerful and needlessly complicated shower functions. It isn't the private strip of sand that leads straight from the deck out into the sea, nor is it the obnoxiously large and sublimely comfortable bed. No, the best thing about this place is that not a single soul lives anywhere close, that no one even has the need to drive within spitting distance of the end of driveway. And that's what he mouths a silent word of thanks for before he smashes his knuckles against the tiles and screams and screams until his throat is hoarse and bitter bile spikes from his stomach, up past his lungs. 

 

If Louis had thought that a trip out here would be a quick fix, he was very much mistaken. Very much mistaken indeed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Tenerife Sea, From The Dining Table and If I Could Fly which were my writing accompaniments for this chapter alongside a smattering of other tracks from Spotify's finest selections of heartbreak playlists.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some might say I'm spoiling you. Others would say I'm using writing fic as a way of escaping dealing with my actual grown up responsibilities. Either way, here's another new chapter - enjoy!
> 
> TW: Extended description of a panic attack/dissociation

“You know,” Harry mutters as he opens the door, “You only need to knock once. Or use the buzzer. Or steal a spare fucking key. This whole ‘gonna hammer on your door so hard I wake the neighbours and split the wood’ thing isn’t necessary.” He doesn't bother to make eye contact with Niall, turning the minute the door’s pulled away from the frame to shuffle back towards the lounge. 

 

“Yeah, well, the whole ‘gonna take half a week to answer the door and leave you wondering if I'm dead’ thing is unnecessary too but that doesn't seem to be stopping you from giving me a near heart attack every other day does it?”

 

Harry sighs.

 

“Been over this Niall. I'm fine.”

 

Harry glances around the room as the words fall from his mouth and surveys the scene that greets them both - the bowls from two nights ago are still stacked on the coffee table, leftover pasta sauce crusted solid on their edges. There’s a makeshift  ashtray beside them, which is really just a flattened diet coke can with more roaches than Harry can count spilling over the sides. The blankets on the sofa are tangled and unkempt and there’s a dark patch of drool on one of the cushions, a memento for the nap Harry had been taking before Niall arrived. The air is dank and heavy, stale and ripe. Harry’s eyes flash down to take in the sight of himself and he quickly flicks them back up, reminded that he’s wearing a pair of Louis’ old joggers that he’d found in the back of a cupboard, too small and ripped and covered in paint, a leftover remnant of times gone by, paired with a threadbare t shirt complete with pit stains from two days of constant wear. He can see, possibly, why his best friend might think he was something other than fine. 

 

“I don't know where he is, if that's why you're here. And I didn't fucking do anything.” Harry is aware that his voice sounds petulant, childish almost, but he can't bring himself to be anything but. He's already had it out with Eleanor over text; there's nothing to be done and he doesn't need Niall to add on to the guilt he's already feeling. He knows how close they are to tour, knows that promo should be ramping up any day now, knows that having a quarter of the band MIA is not what any of them need. Still, at least it's Niall that's been sent to tell him off. Liam is the last person he needs to see right now. 

 

“What the fuck are you talking about? Don't know where who is? Louis?” 

 

“Yeah he-”

 

“Haz look, we’ll come to that, but that's not why I'm here. Fucking hell, can't believe I have to be the one to fucking break this to you. Is your phone broke or something? How the fuck do you not know”

 

Harry’s phone isn't broken, it just died yesterday after a final terse exchange with Eleanor and he hadn't seen any reason to plug it back in. He doesn't even know exactly where it is right now - possibly under one of the cushions of the sofa, tucked away so he didn't get tempted to torture himself. He could move himself to find it but he's sure whatever it is, Niall will have it on his phone anyway so instead he just holds out his hand, too exhausted to bother with pretending to care. If it's not about Louis, he really doesn't give a shit.

 

“Harry, for fuck’s sake, I know you're going through some shit but you've got to snap out of whatever the fuck mood you're in because this is fucking serious, ok? They've leaked it.”

 

Harry’s blood runs cold through his veins, his stomach dropping down into the flat below, static ringing loud in his ears. 

 

“What?” It's barely even a whisper, his lips rigid and struggling to move. 

 

“The video. Someone leaked the fucking video. Mate, I'm so sorry. I thought you'd have known, thought that was why your phone was off.”

 

Harry can't really see, his vision all white and blurry and swimming in front of him. His legs and arms feel numb, pins and needles shooting bright sparks of electricity into his extremities. Even Niall’s voice doesn't sound right, slow and heavy, like it's being processed at half speed. His body doesn't feel like his anymore, and he knows he’s probably still in it somewhere but it doesn't feel like he is right now. He’s vaguely aware that he’s supposed to be breathing, that oxygen is an essential part of the human experience, but it feels too hard to work out the mechanics of his lungs. They're complicated, bodies. So many small little parts that all work together in such a delicately precise order and he has no idea how his manages to do so much without even a second thought most days when it's taking so much effort to even make one part of it work right now. What will happen if he forgets how to keep his heart beating as well? They can probably fix the lung thing but he’s not sure he’s ever heard of someone with a mechanical heart. Will he have to push reset on it every day like a metronome? Will he have a little button in the palm of his hand that he needs to pump to keep it beating? 

 

“Hazza mate? Haz. Fuck. Are you still with me? Can you hear me? Harry, I think you're having a panic attack or something, you've got to try to breathe ok? Just fucking breathe, please, you're going to be alright. Just breathe love” 

 

Niall’s voice sounds miles away, which makes no sense because Harry is pretty certain that he can feel the warmth of Niall’s skin pressed up against his side, can feel his fingers pushing hair away from his face, squeezing his hand. He just can't bring himself to focus on it all though, like there's a time delay and Harry’s getting the signals three seconds after they happen. Everything is moving in slow motion, like he’s in some indie movie and there’s an artful cut scene unfolding before him. It would be quite beautiful if he didn't feel like the entire fabric of reality was ripping apart at the seams around him. 

 

“Harry...fuck Harry come on, where's your fucking inhaler-” Harry’s attention is half caught by motion to his left, as Niall starts to throw the couch cushions on the floor, opening and closing every drawer he can find, presumably looking for something but Harry can't imagine what so he tries to tune back in to Niall’s voice, hoping it might help somehow, “-cks sake, why do you have 18 fucking meditation candles down here and no fucking inhaler. Ok, fuck, what does Louis do when he gets like this, come on Nialler, you've seen it enough, fucking think you prick.”

 

At the sound of Louis’ name, Harry’s vision tunnels and he’s pulled straight back into his body with an intensity that makes him gasp, a tight and painful intake of breath after minutes on the knife edge of oxygen deprivation. 

 

“He's gone.”

 

At the sound of Harry's voice, Niall whips around and stumbles to sit in the gap between Harry's knees, firm hands pressing gently into his thighs. Harry blinks slowly as he looks down at them, two small, pale flesh coloured splodges against the charcoal grey smudges of his legs. 

 

“Louis. He's gone. And I don't know where to find him.” The tears start to spill over then, falling in heavy drops against Niall’s hands, against the soft fabric of his joggers. 

 

Niall doesn't say anything, just makes soothing noises and pulls Harry in close, cradling his head into the juncture of his neck, separating out the greasy knots of his unwashed curls. There’s much to speak about, clearly, but for now he needs to let his friend just feel. They're not going anywhere, not for a little while at least, and neither are the two great travesties that are waiting for their attention. 

 

~~~~

 

Louis wonders if  _ technically _ it's illegal to have logged into Harry’s email account, given that they're separated now and everything - does it still count as a breach of privacy if the only reason you're logged in is because your husband is too stupid to have remembered to logged out, and if you've been too depressed to have even considered opening your laptop for...Louis can't even remember how long its been now. One month? Two? Time stopped having meaning on the night Harry left, so it doesn't really matter anyway. The point still stands though - its not his fault that the browser logged him in to Harry's email by default and he can be forgiven for lingering a little longer than perhaps he should given the content that he was greeted with. 

 

There were two emails that had caught his eye - the first, and more troubling, was an email from management entitled “Confidential: HS Emergency Tactical Response Plan”. That one he hadn't opened yet, wasn't sure if he even wanted to know.

 

The other was a response from Eleanor entitled “Re: for the love of God don't tell Louis I sent you this” And look, Louis is only one small, nosey, fallible human. Anyone would have done the same thing were they confronted with such temptation. That's what he’s telling himself at least. 

 

He’d not opened it straight away, in his defense, although mostly that was because he’d spent a good fifteen minutes trying to weigh up the likelihood of Harry having sent Eleanor an email listing all the ways in which he was a failure of a human being. It didn't make the most sense to imagine them as secret pen pals, sharing all of their deepest hidden hatred for him, but stranger things have happened, he supposes. Eventually though, he decided that probably wasn't the case, especially given how recently it had been sent and how ferociously blunt Eleanor has become when giving him feedback. He knows all the ways she thinks he's a prick, because she tells him with astonishing regularity. And so he’d open it. And now it’s there, in black and white, right in front of him. 

 

Harry had laid out, in precise and painstaking detail, exactly every step and tool and strategy that Eleanor should use to help him get back to something vaguely resembling normal. Louis has always known that Harry has had ways to help him get back on track, but seeing it all written down like this, all the details and the little notes and instructions, had been more overwhelming than he could have anticipated. 

 

It's not just a meal plan, is the thing, although the meal plan is in there and  _ fuck _ , it's perfect. Slow and incremental and every single item is something that Louis can imagine wanting to eat, if not now, at some point in the future. It's more than that though, not just as simple as “meals that sound good”. No, Louis can see that Harry has thought about the textures of each meal, the sizes of them, the way that they might look. For some of the meals, especially the ones earlier on, there's little comments attached, specific guides on how to lay the meal out on the plate, of how to offer it to Louis in a way that feels safe and won't make him panic, little notes on his favourite crockery, the best time of day to offer a certain thing. And then beyond that - Harry has notes for everything, a study in his love. There’s notes for what to do on days when Louis can't bring himself to shower, notes for how to navigate public appearances on days when Louis is overwhelmed by the concept of speech. Notes listing which clothes he likes best on days when he won't look in the mirror and notes detailing which bedding he likes best on nights when he can't sleep. 

 

If it were from anyone else, it would almost feel like too much, obsessive or creepy or just fucking weird, but from Harry it's done in such a way that just feels like an extension of the meticulous and thoughtful way he views the world, a logical progression of how he’s already shown his love across the years. This isn't the email of someone ready to give up on everything they had, it's not the message of a man no longer in love. It's heartfelt and tender and protective and beautiful and wrapped in layers upon layers of love and devotion and care. 

 

Harry still loves him, has never stopped loving him, probably never will, even if Louis chooses to never let him know that he still loves him back. Because he does, love him. He knows it in his heart of hearts. He has no idea how they get back from where they are, doesn't know how he’ll be able to forgive him,  _ if  _ he’ll be able to forgive him, but he loves him still and there's nothing to be gained from pretending anything else. 

 

Louis quickly copies and pastes the content of Harry’s notes into a blank document, saving it to his desktop before clicking his browser back and marking the email as unread. He worries his lower lip between his teeth, contemplating the ethics of opening the second email, before deciding that the ethics of their relationship are still very much up for negotiation at this point, and clicks on the subject line. 

 

He knew it wouldn't be good, has been in the industry long enough to know that anything sent with words like “emergency” and “tactical response” is a sure indicator of trouble but fuck, he never would have imagined it could be quite this bad. 

 

~~~~

 

“Harry, we know that the past few days have been a lot for you, and we just want you to know that we truly do have your best interests at heart, but we do need for you to at least try to engage with the process just a little more, if you could.”

 

It's the grey man again, Harry realises, the one from that awful meeting weeks ago. Harry wonders for a moment how he’s managed to become so senior within the company when he's so tremendously...blah. It takes conscious effort to even remember he exists, which would feel a little unfair in normal circumstances, but these aren't normal circumstances, and he really could do without the extra effort of having to remind himself that the man speaking to him is actually significant and important and not just a cardboard cutout bought in to boost the numbers around the table. 

 

“I'm here, aren't I? What more do you want?” Harry shoves his thumbnail back between his lips and tugs at the quick with his teeth. It hurts a bit, but pain is good, pain keeps him present and apparently that's what he’s supposed to be. 

 

“Well -” fucking hell, seriously, is there not  _ someone  _ with just a bit more personality who could lead on this? Harry glances over to Niall and notices him stifling a yawn behind his hand, “-you could share your thoughts on the damage management plan for a start.”

 

“It's fine.”

 

“If you'll excuse me Mr Styles -” ordinarily, Harry would interject with a quick ‘just Harry is fine’ but truly, it's not worth the effort. If he didn't listen the first ten times, he’s not going to suddenly start now, “-you haven't actually  _ looked _ at the damage management plan. Your copy is, ahem, over there.” Harry lets his gaze travel in the direction that the grey man is pointing, seeing the crumpled up ball of paper that hadn't quite made it to the bin. 

 

“It's fine. I'm sure it's fine because I pay you for it to be fine and because you know and I know that it's in your best financial interests for it to be fine. So go ahead, do what needs to be done. I'm going to find my husband.”

 

There's a flurry of commotion around the table and Niall, who had definitely  _ not _ been falling asleep, is the first one to speak. 

 

“Hazza mate, are you sure that's wise? You don't know where the fuck he is. He said he wanted to be left alone. Like, what are you even going to do? Take the jet and go to every fucking house in turn?”

 

Harry doesn't meet Niall’s eyes. 

 

“Oh fuck, that's exactly what you're going to do. Harry, seriously mate this is fucking ridic-”

 

Harry rises from his chair, standing tall for what feels like the first time in days, letting his back click and crack and pop in the most satisfying of ways. 

 

“What's the point in being a multimillionaire, in having endless resources at my disposal, if I can't even fucking use it to go and find the love of my life? There isn't one. It's madness. So I'm leaving now, and I'm going to find him, and I don't care if he doesn't love me, don't care if he doesn't want me. I just need to bring him home.”

 

And with that, Harry walks out of the room, not turning once to say goodbye, leaving Niall and the lawyers to deal with the aftermath of it all. For the first time in weeks, he feels peace. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dunnnnnnn. 
> 
> Side note: please can someone make me a meticulously structured depression meal plan? I can't remember the last time I ate a vegetable that I cooked myself.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You were all so flipping lovely about the last couple of chapter updates. Thank you so much. Honestly, some of the comments I've had on this fic have made me cry. The idea that people I don't know would read something I've written and not only enjoy it, but enjoy it enough to tell me they enjoyed it? Absolutely mindblowing. You are all wonderful.

Harry is, in all honesty, exhausted. He's been on the go for five solid days, travelled across more time zones than he can bare to think of and doesn't remember the last time he showered. Possibly the evening he crashed in the Yorkshire house? Or maybe the morning he spent at the LA house? Who the fuck knows. Definitely not in the past 48 hours, and if he weren't so tired, he’d maybe be disgusted by himself but he really can't bring himself to even pretend to care. It's not like anyone is going to notice. 

 

He buckles his seatbelt and flips the blind up so he can keep half an eye out of the window as the plane hits the tarmac; landing has always been his least favourite part of flying and he holds his cross between his lips, shooting out a silent prayer as a mindless ritual to soften his anxiety. It was always easier when he had Louis’ hand holding his, a gentle thumb brushing across his knuckles, soft reminders to breathe. But he doesn't, so now it's just him and God and holding onto the belief that his pilot is as good as he says he is. 

 

They land and it's bumpy, but Harry knows that already. It always is in Jamaica. The main thing is that after however many hours it was in the air, he’s back on solid ground and can carry on with his mission. 

 

Jamaica. Harry would laugh if he wasn't so fucking tired. It's utter madness that he’s even considering the thought of Louis being here. There are plenty of other places to go with less history, less meaning, and Louis has been in none of them, so why the fuck would he be hiding out here, in the house where Harry proposed, in the house where they got married in front of a small group of their loved ones, in the house they’d kept as their safe little sanctuary from the world. Jamaica isn't neutral territory, it isn't somewhere that he can pretend doesn’t have memories. They’d renovated the inside of their little beach cottage together, put their handprints into the plaster that they’d patched up on the outside wall after a particularly vicious storm one year.

 

Harry’s feeling sick at the thought of visiting it just for this tiny check - why would Louis spend almost a week there when he’s clearly done with everything that ever happened between them?

 

And yet, Harry couldn't help but feel like he needed to come out here. The original plan had been to swing up to New York after LA, but he'd seen their wedding photo proudly displayed in the bedroom and something inside him had tugged at him to fly out. Maybe it's nostalgia, maybe it's intuition, maybe it's the onset of madness from sleep deprivation and living off of airport food for almost an entire week. But he's here now, and regardless of whether Louis is here or not, he's staying put for at least 24 hours. He needs sleep and fresh air and maybe to throw himself into the ocean naked.

 

He makes light work of running through customs, having landed at a small private airport where no-one cares who he is, and hops into the hire car that's waiting for him. He toys with turning his phone on but he already knows what's waiting for him; several messages from management, three (maybe more now) increasingly lengthy voicemails from Niall and thousands upon thousands of notifications in response to The Sun’s hatchet job on him and the leaked video. His team had managed to get it pulled, eventually, and were apparently trying to run damage control, but nothing really disappears in the digital age, and for every account his fans and his team get suspended for sharing it, another three pop up in response. So no, his phone can stay off just a little while longer. There's nothing he can do and he really doesn't have any desire to actually communicate with human beings. At least the Jamaica house is quiet, secluded. He’ll be left alone for as long as he stays here, and actually maybe it’s exactly where he needs to be right now. He knows that this whole wild goose chase for Louis probably isn't the best sign that he’s coping well with everything, so really taking a little time to rest in one of his favourite places in the world is an act of kindness to himself. 

 

The drive from the airport to the house is simple enough - he’s done it countless times, and with the sun starting to set in the horizon he feels a sense of calm settle over him. There’s something about the routine of it all that's oddly relaxing, and there’s no place Harry loves more in the world than the deck of the beach house, looking out across the ocean as the sun sets in the distance. He stops briefly at a small roadside stall selling fresh fruit, and loads the passenger seat with a haul of his favourites, tipping generously (but not obnoxiously). Fruit for dinner, maybe a little rum from the pantry, a dip in the ocean - Harry can feel the stress melting away at the thought. 

 

Eventually, he pulls into the driveway and his heart drops when he sees that there’s no car sitting there to greet him. He should be used to it now, it's been the same at every house he's visited, but he’d really started to think that maybe this would be where Louis was hiding out. It’s silly, and romantic, and probably a sign that he still can't quite accept that they're  _ over over _ , but that's Harry in a nutshell; a hopeless romantic until the bitter end. He doesn't bother going in and instead goes straight through the little gate at the side that leads to the deck, crossing the latch over to make sure he doesn't have to wake up to a banging gate in the middle of the night, and doesn't even think before he strips off and runs down to the ocean. If there are a couple of tears streaming down his cheeks as he does it, they’re gone as soon as he dunks himself under the bright azure blue of the ocean, his own saltwater mixing in with the vastness that engulfs him. It's warm and refreshing and utterly perfect. 

 

It doesn't take long for the tiredness to catch up with him, and the effort of keeping himself afloat starts to feel entirely too much, so Harry finds himself padding towards the deck, using his shirt to dry himself before he pulls his underwear back on and settles into a lounger to watch the rest of a sunset. There's an empty glass on the table next to him, and Harry mentally scolds himself for not doing a good enough check before they left last time they were here. He’ll take it in later though. A couple more minutes won’t hurt it. For now, he just needs to rest. It's not that he’s going to sleep, he just needs to close his eyes for a moment. It's been too long since he was here last and after five days on the go, the luxury of sitting outside in the warmth of a setting sun is a ideal moment to just be. 

 

Of course, no sooner than he closes his eyes, Harry falls soundly asleep, and the rest of the world fades away. 

 

~~~~~

 

Louis loads his groceries into the canvas totes he’s brought with him to the market and slowly starts to make his way back to the car, cursing watermelons for being so fucking  _ heavy. _ He’s been getting through one a day since he arrived though and as much as it pains him to admit, he’d had a small strop when he’d woken up to discover he was all out. It's not like it was anyone a fault but his own, but still, turns out Louis has become a watermelon addict and he’s paying the price now as he lugs them back to the car. Maybe he should get one of those little wheelie shopping trollies that all the older women in Doncaster used to use when he was younger. Maybe he should just stop fucking moaning and get himself back to the car. 

 

He loads the shopping into the boot and pulls the note on his phone up to make sure he’s got everything. He does, thank fuck. Town was oddly busy today and he’d spent the whole expedition slightly on edge, waiting for someone to recognise him. It had never happened in the however many years it was he and Harry had been coming out here for, but still, there's a first time for everything and with all the news about Harry that's been flying around, he wouldn't have been surprised if someone finally clocked him. Thankfully, he managed to make it through relatively unscathed, and now he just has to head home and cook dinner. He’s pretty certain that the meal plan has some sort of vegan curry on it this evening but he was in a rush and didn't properly check the little calendar he’d stuck to the fridge before he left, more concerned with getting up and out before all the good veg disappeared into the arms of the grandmas and aunties. Those women would kill a man for a decent yam, and even arriving as early as he did (by his standards at least), he knows he was left with the dud selection. Still better than anything in Tesco though; fresh from the growers backyard farm. 

 

Louis checks his phone one last time before he starts to drive, but no, nothing. He sighs and chews his thumb nail as he rereads the text he’d sent Harry last night one last time. He’d gone over it what felt like a hundred times before he’d sent it, but still maybe he could have edited it again. He can't even tell if it’s been delivered properly and he's honestly starting to wonder if it was a mistake to have even tried, but he couldn't keep watching Harry get torn apart and pretend he didn't care. You don't just stop loving someone, not after so many years, and the more Louis thinks about it, the more he sees how clearly Harry was set up, the more he starts to wonder if maybe things between then could actually end up ok again. But obviously, that relies on Harry actually communicating with him which...yeah. Doesn't seem to be high on his agenda right now. 

 

The drive back to the house is pretty straight forward, but Louis decides to take a little detour to one of his favourite spots to watch the sunset. He’s amazed at how quickly the day has passed, but by the time he’d finally got up and out, had lunch and made his way through the market, evening had started to draw its way in. He doesn't stay long, just a little fifteen minute moment of calm with the radio playing softly in the background. He’s spent these past few days giving himself more time to just be and do nothing, and it's not quite Harry levels of meditation, but it's been helpful all the same. It's his stomach rumbling that pulls him back into himself, and he turns the key in the ignition to start the rest of the drive back home. 

 

Before long, he pulls into the drive and thank fuck he’s paying attention because he has to slam on the brakes to avoid tail ending an almost identical car to the one he’s currently driving that’s parked in his spot. 

 

“What the fuck?” Louis whispers softly to himself. He forgets to unbuckle his seatbelt in his haste to get out of the car and coughs a little as it pulls at his throat with the force of his sudden movement. 

 

“What. The. Fuck.”

 

Louis manages to get himself out of the car and runs towards the door, the shopping forgotten in the boot, his phone laying dormant in the passenger seat. The door isn't locked, because he never bothers when he’s staying here, and the energy of his pace flings it wide open the minute he pushes down on the handle. The living room is empty, the kitchen too. 

 

“Harry?”

 

He doesn't quite shout, but his voice breaks a little at the end, overcome with emotion. He doesn't even know what he's feeling, but whatever it is, it's hitting him with the force of a freight train. 

 

The bathroom door is still open, towel dropped in the middle of the floor from his morning shower, and Louis tentatively makes his way towards the bedrooms, trying each door in turn. There's noone there. The house is just as he left it, and there's not a sign that anyone other than him has been there either - no bags, no suitcases, no plates drying on the side. 

 

He goes back to the front door and yep, the car is definitely still there. It wasn't some sort of weird delusion, wasn't a hallucination induced by spending so much time out here alone, wasn't a side effect of too much fruit making his brain go loopy. 

 

“What the fuck?” 

 

This time it isn't Louis who says it, but a voice coming from behind him. 

 

An incredibly familiar voice. 

 

Louis forces himself to turn around, forces himself to look over in the direction of the screen door leading out to the deck, and mentally kicks himself for not checking out there. Of course Harry would head straight for the ocean, of course. And there he is, stood holding himself up against the frame, sleep crusted at the edge of his eyes, hair wild and knotted with what Louis is sure is the remnants of a swim in the sea, wearing nothing but a pair of briefs and a expression of pure bewilderment. 

 

“I could say exactly the same to you. What the fuck Harry. What the fuck?” Louis’ voice isn't angry. He isn't even sure if Harry can hear him from so far away, finding it hard to speak much above a whisper. 

 

“I've been everywhere Lou-” Harry’s voice is thick with the threat of tears, and he slowly starts to move into the house, walking slowly, cautiously, “-and I'm sorry I know you probably didn't want to be found but I couldn't let you just disappear. I couldn't. Not with how bad you were, not when I had to carry you back home. I couldn't bare the thought of losing you Louis and I'm sorry, I can go, I can leave straight away if you want me to. I just needed to know that you were still here. I just needed to know you were ok.” By the time Harry is done speaking, his tears are falling freely and he’s closed half of the distance between the two of them, in awe of the fact that Louis hasn't run or shouted or thrown anything at him. 

 

“Don't. Don't go. Just….have you eaten yet?”

 

“What?” Harry’s head snaps up as he finally looks at Louis’ face. That is not the response he was expecting. 

 

“Have you eaten yet? It's umm...I think that vegan curry? You know the one you always make when I'm umm….when I'm sick y’know..like I've been. Not sure though, need to check the plan. Or we can have something else. Or like...I can just grab a snack if you have or-”

 

Harry cuts him off. 

 

“You've been using the meal plan? The one I wrote?” It's probably not the question Harry should be asking right now, but there's a small spark of hope flicking inside of him that he can't quite bring himself to quash. 

 

Louis bites his lip and nods his head quickly, an echo of the last time they were together. But Harry can see things are different now - it may only have been five days, but he can see that Louis has started to fill out a little, that the hollows of his cheeks aren't quite so deep, that the shadows under his eyes have faded a little, the ashy tone of his skin replace with a soft gold. 

 

“Louis, I can honestly say that I would love nothing more than to eat with you. Thank you. What shall I do?” Harry starts moving towards the kitchen but stops as Louis raises his hand. 

 

“Nothing. Well, not nothing - if you could help me get the shopping out of my boot that would be great because fuck me watermelons are bastards, but I think I need to just cook and stuff by myself. A lot to process y’know. Wasn't expecting to come back to...this.” Louis laughs but it comes out more awkward than anything else, his shock and discomfort hidden beneath it. 

 

“Yeah of course. Lead the way.”

 

“Just out here. And ummm...could you put some clothes on? Sorry. Don't want to be prude just...y’know...yeah.”

 

Harry blushes briefly and nods before following Louis out to the car. As he does, he pulls his cross to his lips for the swiftest of kisses and sends up another silent prayer, and for the first time in many, many weeks, it's not a prayer of petition, but one of thanks. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not, for one second, think that shit is about to get easy. But we're coming into the home stretch now, and I promise there's a happy ending waiting for you all. Also omg this is over 50k?! HOW!?!?! And how are you all still reading? Bless you. I love you


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erm.....hi? Hello. Im alive. 
> 
> It's been a rough few months and I can only apologise for the delay. I have a condition that's kind of like a cross between ms & epilepsy and I've been struck by one of the most severe flare ups I've ever had. As a result, I've spent the best part of 4 months in bed doing exactly diddly squat and I'm now the owner of a very shiny, very snazzy powerchair. It's been A Lot my friends, and Oh how I would have vastly preferred to be updating my beloved Oi Oi.
> 
> Anyway, this evening I finally had a bit of brain power, energy and inspiration so I listened to a lot of sad Adele songs and wrote you this chapter. Apologies if there's errors - neurological stuff means my brain isn't the best and it's unbetaed as always. I did check through before posting, but also today I put my toast in the cupboard instead of eating it and spent a full 15 minutes convinced sharks were actually called snakes. Obviously, the perfect day for posting my first chapter of fic in month but NEVER MIND. Anyway....enjoy? I hope it's OK.

Louis winces at the sound of the pans clattering together in the cupboard whilst he tries to find one big enough for curry for two. His fingers are trembling and he can feel his heart rabbiting against his rib cage as he tries to focus himself on the task at hand, which is quite the mean feat when his entire body is telling him to run. He doesn't know _where_ it wants him to run exactly, but it’s not like he’d listen to it even if he did. The fact that he’s in shock right now makes sense really. He truly hadn't expected that Harry would come looking for him; partially because he’d very explicitly said not to but also because Harry hadn't text or called and seriously, how the fuck had Harry even worked out he was in Jamaica? Fuck the fucking pilot, clearly he couldn't keep his mouth shut. Louis makes a mental note to never book him again and finally manages to pull out a pan that’s somewhere approaching the right size. He’d never realised before quite how much cookware Harry had squirreled away in the kitchen here, and why would he have? Harry has always cooked, especially when they’ve come over here to get away from it all. He’s always said it helps him feel like a normal person and not the weird, exaggerated celebrity caricature he falls into the rest of the time. Louis pulls himself from his thoughts and focuses on following Harry’s instructions, mentally kicking himself for not asking for help. He knows there's no way it will be as good as when Harry makes it, and he lets out a frustrated sigh as he begins to chop. 

 

Louis lets his mind wander again and starts thinking about how Harry just has this way of making everything taste so much better, even using when Louis is using the exact same ingredients in the exact same way. He’s always told Louis it's because he sprinkles a little extra love in at the end, which had made him burst out laughing the first time he’d heard Harry say it and led to a 10 minute conversation where Harry had to repeatedly reassure Louis he hadn’t jizzed in the shepherd’s pie. It had been quite the formative moment in their relationship, and Louis still remembers it fondly. 

 

Technically, Louis could still go into the lounge and ask Harry for help. He glances towards the doorway, where he can just make out Harry’s profile as he's sat on the sofa, back stiff, head bowed. Louis doesn't have to see him up close to know that his lower lip will be trapped between his teeth, his hands clasped as he absently rubs his thumb over the cross inked on his skin. He’ll be praying, because that’s what Harry does when he gets nervous. He sits and chews a hole in his lip and hopes that somewhere out there, there’s a God and they’re listening. 

 

The hardest thing for Louis right now, aside from not fucking up the curry in his distracted state, is resisting the urge to abandon it all and go plant kisses straight on Harry’s lips. He hadn't been expecting to feel so strongly towards him given how things had been left, but it turns out a little distance, a lot of sun and watching from a distance as the love of your life gets ripped to shreds for daring to be a gay man in the music industry can do wonders to heal those open wounds. Harry isn't forgiven though and things aren't fixed and there’s much to talk about, so very much. For now, Louis decides those kisses can stay locked behind his lips and he’ll just have to focus himself on trying to make something halfway edible.

 

Before long, the curry is done and somehow Louis has even managed to not fuck up the rice, which is possibly a first. He piles it into two bowls and forces himself not to think too much about what the portions look like. He’ll eat what he can eat; Harry has never judged him, never pushed to do more than he can as he recovers. For all that's happened between them, he still knows with certainty and clarity that when he’s struggling, when he’s...sick, Harry is a safe place. There has never been a day since they met that he’s doubted it, even when he’s felt betrayed or unloved, he’s known that Harry would never judge him for his struggles. 

 

Louis places the bowls on the coffee table and tucks himself into the armchair just to the left of where Harry is sat. He’s not quite ready to share space with him, not yet. If he gets too close, he knows he’ll crumble, he’ll give in, and that isn't what they need right now. He needs to be strong, they both do. There’s no way they can save this if they don't attempt to talk about it like the adults they are. Sometimes, Louis feels like they get stuck in a perpetual state of being 16 and 18; daily reminders from fans who have never let go of the innocent children they so rapidly grew out of being seeping in under their skin and pushing them back into niave adolescence.

 

“S’good Lou. Thank you.” 

 

Harry’s voice is laced with tension, and it feels like he’s holding back from saying something else. Probably a joke knowing Harry. He’s not good at dealing with uncomfortable silence. 

 

Louis nods in return. 

 

“Thanks. All your doing really, I just followed the instructions.” Louis pulls a tight smile across his lips as he throws the briefest glance across in Harry’s direction. He doesn't mention the pinch of love that he’d plucked from the space in front of his heart, or the fact that sprinkled it on top after he’d dished up, and he definitely doesn't mention that he’d been sure to put more of it on Harry’s dish than his own. That's a secret to be kept between him and the cooking pot.

 

They continue eating in silence and whilst it's not comfortable, it’s not as bad as it could be. It does mean that the sound of their chewing echoes in Louis’ ears though, and he makes himself sing his way through his favourite songs from Grease in his head to distract himself from obsessing over it. The more he thinks about eating, the harder it gets, and it won't be good for either of them if Louis starts to relapse now, not after the progress he’s made. 

 

Eventually, the silence is broken by the sound of Harry’s spoon clattering against the side of the empty bowl as he sets it back down in front of him. Louis sets his down too, his meal only half finished. It had been going cold anyway, and although he’s made a lot of progress on his own, it's different with someone else there and the idea of Harry watching him eat feels too uncomfortable.

 

“Shit, sorry Lou, I wasn't thinking”

 

Louis turns his head in Harry’s direction, face scrunched in confusion as Harry gestures towards the table.

 

“That was selfish of me, sorry, I should have waited for you to finish. I just wasn't thinking, I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I can go if you ne-”

 

Harry starts to rise from his seat and Louis can't see him walk out, not now, not when he’s here and they’re close and he has him, so without even thinking, he reaches his arm out and yanks Harry back onto the sofa by his wrist.

 

“Don't you even think about leaving me right now Harry Styles. Don't you dare,” His voice is thick with the threat of tears and Louis forces himself to swallow them back as he hardens his glare. “If you want to leave, fine, but don't you fucking _dare_ leave before we’ve had a chance to talk.” A single tear eeks it's way out, slipping across Louis’ cheek in slow motion before he angrily wipes it away. To Harry’s credit, he looks suitably chastised as he falls back into his seat, a softly mumbled apology falling from his lips. 

 

The two of them sit in silence again and Louis wonders if Harry can hear his heart beating; he feels like he must be able to given how deafeningly it's pounding in his ears. 

 

Eventually, Harry breaks the silence, clearing his throat once, twice, three times, and Louis knows he’s gearing himself up to speak, the rhythmic pattern of it as familiar as music to his ears. Louis, in turn, closes his eyes tightly shut, focusing everything he has on taking a deep, grounding breath before he allows himself to open then again and turn in Harry’s direction. He feels the impulse to run rising back up in his chest, and it’s even harder to ignore than before, but he manages to. He can't quite bring himself to smile at Harry, but he schools his face into something he hopes comes across as open and nods his head to show he’s ready to listen. There’s no use delaying things. It will only hurt them both the longer they put it off. Louis knows that Harry put the effort in to find him, but he also knows that what’s coming next can't possibly be good, the hope he’d managed to muster whilst he cooked long gone and replaced with icy dread. Harry probably wanted to make sure he wasn't dead so he can have a clear conscience Louis thinks to himself as he digs his fingers into this thighs. He silently berates himself for being so foolish as to think it was all a set up, wondering how quickly it takes for a divorce to go through and whether Harry has the paperwork with him. His eyes start to dart around the room, frantically searching for a bag or a briefcase or _something,_ when finally Harry starts to speak.

 

~~~

 

“Louis, the first thing I want you to know is that I have absolutely no expectations of your forgiveness. What I did was truly unacceptable. It was selfish and unfair and you absolutely deserve to be treated better, you deserve to be loved and adored every moment of every hour of every day.” Harry pauses, allowing himself to take a steadying breath as he tries to calm his furiously beating heart. 

 

He flicks his eyes across to where Louis is sat and watches the hard line of Louis’ jaw tighten, sees how his fingers tighten where he grips around his legs. The sight causes Harry to stumble, his thoughts scattering and falling out of the order he’d so carefully planned as he flew across the globe, waiting for this moment. He knew Louis would be angry, but he didn't expect him to be like this so soon. He thought he’d have the chance to say his piece, to beg for forgiveness, but from the way Louis is sat, it looks like he won’t even be able to get through the first half before he’s thrown out. The thought of this being what he deserves takes Harry by surprise, and the words catch in his throat as he tries to force himself to push them out, to say as much as he can whilst he still has the chance. Louis gets there first though, cutting him off before he can dislodge them.

 

“Just say it Harry.” 

 

The words are spat out, and Louis isn't even looking at him now, just burning a hole through the floor with his glare instead. Harry tries to speak again, but he can feel the panic rising in the chest, squeezing the words down deep. 

 

Louis rolls his eyes and swiftly turns himself back  in Harry’s direction.

 

“God, you can't even bring yourself to say it can you?” Anger always makes Louis’ accent come out thicker and rougher, and Harry feels the chill of being on the receiving end of it run down his spine. “Just tell me you're leaving me Harry. I’ll even find the fucking pen myself if you didn't bother to bring one.”

 

And...that is not what Harry was expecting at all.

 

“Wait, what?”

 

Louis spits out a wry laugh. 

 

“It's fine Harry, you don't have to play dumb. It's nice of you to come and check I'm not dead but it’s fine, you don't have to pretend, just show me where to sign and I’ll do it.” Louis pushes his hands against the sides of the arm chair as he stands up, and walks in the direction of the little bureau by the door.

 

Harry quickly starts playing back everything that’s happened since he arrived, wondering if he spaced out at some point and missed some important part of the conversation, but he’s pretty sure he hasn't. 

 

“Lou….Lou...Louis, will you fucking look at me?” Louis pauses his steps but doesn't turn in Harry's direction, instead just inhaling loud enough for Harry to hear from where he’s sat “I'm sorry for swearing, but darling, I have no idea what on earth you're talking about. Why do you need a pen?” He ignores Louis’ flinch at the pet name, not giving himself time to get distracted by trying to work out what it means.

 

“For the divorce papers.”

 

And Harry knows he’s sitting down but it still feels like the ground falls out from beneath him as his tears start to fall uncontrollably, his breathing erratic and broken. 

 

“You're divorcing me?” Harry knows it comes out more as a wail than anything else, but he honestly can't bring himself to regret it. He’s almost certain he can physically feel his heart breaking into pieces inside his chest. 

 

“No,” Louis drags out the vowel, finally turning back in Harry's direction, “you're divorcing me. Aren't you?”

 

And what the fuck? Where has this even come from? Harry attempts to quieten his sobs, to find some semblance of control so he can work out what on earth is going on.

 

It doesn't work as well as he wants it to. 

 

“No? Who told you that? What made you think that? Do you want me to? If you want a divorce Louis, I obviously can't stop you, I know I hurt you so badly and I can't even start to understand how it must have felt but I need you to know it would be the absolute last thing I want unless it was the only thing that would make you happy because well then yes, I suppose I would have to want it-” Harry knows he’s starting to ramble and his body sags with relief when Louis interrupts him.

 

“Hazza, stop. You haven't come here to divorce me?” Something Harry might dare to call relief were he in a better state of mind tinges Louis’s voice, but he doesn't dare let himself focus on it.

  


“Of course I haven't Louis. I know I fucked up, and I don't expect you forgive me, not straight away, but Louis I don't work without you. You’re my soulmate, my other half, my best friend. You're the centre of my world - you have been since I was 16 and I hope you will be until the day I die. I can't comprehend what life would be without you, and if it’s even a fraction as hard as these past months have been, I don't know if I can take it. I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I'm asking that you will trust that I can earn it, because I will do whatever it takes, for however long it takes.” Harry takes a deep breath and notices that Louis has moved himself a step closer towards where he’s sat. “When we stood on the beach outside and promised ourselves to each other for forever, I meant I truly forever. I wish I could explain what happenedwith this whole….mess beyond the fact that it was a set up and I'm an idiot and I fucked up, because I know it's the most pathetic excuse for breaking your heart, but truly that’s all there is to say. I was selfish and I put my own desires in that moment before you and the love that we share, and Louis, I don't even know why. Why would I do something that would hurt you so much when making you happy has always been the thing that’s completed me? Being the person to make you smile is like a gift from the heavens, like being warmed by the sun on a winter's day. Lou, I never thought I would find someone who understood me as deeply and as completely as you do, but somehow I did and I have thanked God every single day since I met you that I've been allowed the privilege of calling myself yours. My heart has never belonged to anyone but you Louis Tomlinson. Did I tell you that after I…. did what I did, I put myself in the shower and turned it on as hot it would go and tried to scrub it all away? I felt dirty and disgusting and I still do. I can't get the feeling of it off my skin and Louis, all I have wanted since the moment it happened has been to take it all back and erase it all. It’s the biggest mistake I've ever made, it's my deepest regret. I'm not saying that to make you feel sorry for me or to make you forgive me, I know I don't deserve that, but I need you to know just how much of a stupid mistake it was and how much I love you. You are my everything, my darling boy, my husband, my spouse, my life partner, my anchor, my home, and if you’re still willing to give this a try, I never want you to be anything else.”

 

Through his tears, Harry hadn’t noticed Louis slowly edging closer and closer, and so it takes him by surprise when he finally lifts his head and his vision is flooded with Louis stood right in front of him. His entire body shudders as Louis’ thumb sweeps across his cheek, left first, then right, before being covered with the edge of the thin hoodie Louis is wearing to wipe away the rundown from Harry’s nose that’s settled above his upper lip during the onslaught of his sobs.

 

“OK”

 

Harry looks up, his eyes meeting Louis’ for what feels like the first time in months.

 

“OK?”

 

“Yes Harry, ok. We’ll work on it. Together. I forgive you.”

 

Harry scrambles to get his words out “Louis, honestly, you don't have to forgive me, I know I don't deserve it, it’s OK, it's fine-”

 

Louis silences him with a kiss, soft and brief and chaste, the salty slip of tears spread across both of their lips making it colder and wetter than it would usually be.

 

“I know. And I'm not saying there won't be more layers, more forgiveness to work through, but for now, for the sake of our marriage, I forgive you and I at least want to try to make this work again, to make us work again. There won't be a magic moment Harry. There won't be a point where you can find the right words and suddenly it will all go away. This is going to take time and patience and love. I can't promise I won't have days where I'm angry or hurt or upset, because I will. But I would rather be all of those things with you than without you because you are my everything. Always have been, my darling. Always will be.”

 

Harry wants to respond, he does, but all he can do is burst back into tears, overwhelmed with the love and grace being shown to him by this man who he is lucky enough to still, on some level at least, call his own. 

 

He feels a soft hand close around his, pulling him from the sofa, and he braces himself against Louis’ shoulder with the other as he stumbles his way to standing. 

 

“I don't know about you darling, but I'm exhausted. I had to fight some aunties at the market for a yam and then I came home to find an intruder in my house. Bedtime maybe?” Louis looks up at him from beneath his lashes, shy and searching and hopeful. 

 

“Only if you're sure Lou. I can sleep out in one of the guest rooms if that’s easier for you. Whatever makes you most comfortable.” Harry pulls his lower lip into his mouth, only to have Louis tug it out with just a pinch too much force.

 

“Harry Edward Styles, you have known me long enough to know that not only do I not say things I do not mean, but that I also always sleep better with you snoring beside me like a human white noise machine. I had to resort to YouTube videos of strangers doing it without you and I'm pretty certain I'm now on some sort of watch list for weirdos being tracked by the FBI.” Louis rolls his eyes, sarcastically, but Harry can sense the insecurity floating underneath.

 

“Oh well if it's to be your personal white noise machine, you should have just said.” And with that, Harry leans his head down, just level with Louis’ ear, and lets out an exaggerated fake snore that has Louis pushing him away, their joint short lived laughter betraying the anxiety still rattling around the room. 

 

Louis reaches his hand back out again, a shy smile across his lips 

 

“Come on then Styles. Bedtime.”

 

And as they curl up beneath the cool cotton sheets, the sound of the waves drifting through the room from the shutters, they both say their silent thank yous; Harry to a God well known and Louis to a God unknown, to the sky or the sea or sheer chance luck. It doesn't matter, not really, because the only ones who need to know these unspoken gratitudes are laying right there in that room, the smaller of the two wrapped tightly around the larger, bodies slotting together with an ease that only comes from two halves of the same soul coming back together, knowing that in the other they find home.

 

For the first time in who knows how long, both Harry and Louis sleep peacefully, the whole night through.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was that alright? Please be kind and tell me if it wasn't terrible and if it was terrible....just pretend it wasn't and be kind anyway. 
> 
> I don't know when the next chapter will be but I promise that it will becoming and hopefully with less of a wait. There is still a lot more to go. Louis means what he says - there's layers of forgiveness to be worked through here. It's not just one and done and off into the Jamaican sunset.


End file.
